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I
fell instantly in love with this secret garden quality,
which evoked an endless stream of romantic notions
about the place and its fictional inhabitants. The
beautiful woman in her long blue-silk gown walking
in the mist, waiting for her lover to return from
the war, or the wounded prince who lives alone with
his devoted dog and sits for long hours before the
fireplace staring into the embers and dreaming of
his love who died in childbirth, along with their
child.
Having fallen under the spell of Serre de la Madone
-- the greenhouse of the madonna, Mr. Johnston’s tribute
to his own mother -- the sudden sight of a dark youngman
through the trees startled me. A wood sprite for certain,
I thought. The sprite introduced himself as Benoir,
the gardener I’d spoken with on the phone. Fortunately
he spoke English, and as he showed me around the grounds,
he told me a little of its history.
"After Lawrence Johnston had established the more
famous Hidcote in England, he bought this property
in 1919 to enjoy the winter. It was a perfect setting
for sub-tropical plants and already had established
olive and citrus trees. It’s also sheltered from every
wind. That is very important in Southern France."
As he talked, Benoir occasionally broke off a clump
of leaves from the plants we passed.
"What
will you do with them?" I asked.
"On
Saturday children come here for classes. Monsieur
Johnston traveled the world in search of rare plants.
We’ve identified over 700 species of trees alone,
and 40 of them are unknown in Europe."
La Madone is made up of a series of terraces that
lead to the house at the top of the gently inclined
hillside overlooking the Mediterranean. We walked
up the central stairway that divides the property
into its many smaller gardens. This technique was
one of Johnston’s inventions and one that he’s most
well-known for; creating small gardens within the
larger. The house itself overlooked the expanse of
garden with it’s very large cypress trees and layers
of pools that reflect all the way down the hill to
the sea.
The
house was not overlarge, with comfortable small rooms
and windows looking out in all directions. Benoir
had opened all of them, and the scents from the garden
enhanced by the rain blended with Beethoven’s Pastoral
Symphony in a rare moment. The place was so beautiful
and full of a quiet melancholy. Such beauty hidden
away from the world, with no one living there to appreciate
it, moved me deeply.
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That
night, tucked cozily under the comfortor in my room,
I listened to the rain as it drummed on the tile roof
with mixed feelings. I’d opened the windows to let
in the scents of the garden and would have been quite
content but for the concern about weather the next
day. I’d been lucky to see la Madone from the shelter
of the house, but the gardens I planned to see the
next day would not have such a handy cover, and I
had really wanted to photograph. It was October, and
I’d known I was taking a chance on the weather when
I’d made plans to come so late in the season. With
a prayer to the garden spirits, I drifted off to sleep.
Morning
brought sunlight bounding through the open window.
I rushed from bed to look out at a sparkling world
as the light glistened on each drop of water. Birds
were singing madly -- they reflected my feelings exactly.
Somewhere nearby a cock crowed -- an unexpected barnyard
sound.
Downstairs
the table and chairs had been wiped down and set beside
the pool under a row of tall thin Italian Cypress.
Above the old stone house -- half-covered in varieties
of climbing plants -- the jagged rock mountains framed
an azure sky. The table was laden with warm flaky
croissants, apricot and raspberry jam, butter, poached
eggs, fresh orange juice and a thermos of coffee and
pitcher of hot milk. My hostess solicitously watched
over me, and then disappeared once she knew I had
everything I wanted. Beside my feet, two dogs were
wrestling playfully, and the cat had just walked by
on her way into the lower garden, still dark and damp
with dew.
"Ah,
Provence," I sighed thankfully, soaking in the warmth
and beauty and the delicious food. In the spirit of
sensual pleasure, I decided to go to the morning marché
in Nice before seeing the Villa and Garden Ephrussi
de Rothschild in St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat.
Most
towns of any size in Provence have at least a weekly
market. Nice has one daily, and it’s one of the best.
Once I’d figured out how to buy a parking ticket --
no small feat -- and had put it on my windshield.
I was feeling practically giddy with happiness.
There
were whole sections of stalls sprouting every type
of mushroom, exorbitant excesses of candied fruits
in a kaleidoscope of colors, and countless cantaloupes
and melons. There were bushels and pecks, gallons
and heaps, of every conceivable vegetable and fruit
known to man -- wagonloads and swarms of flowers --
scads, oodles, and lashings of olives -- and a veritable
profusion of perfumes. Moving around, among, and between
this delightful display, were marvelous people buying
and selling and painting. Between sampling the tastes
and scents, and capturing the images, my camera and
I had a very good time at the market.
The
drive around the Nice harbor to the furthest point
east, and St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat, was almost unbearably
beautiful. The sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds
left over from the storm, the water glistened with
reflected light, and the entire coastline was a blend
of colorful buildings and rough rocky protrusions
of the mountains that flow down to the Mediterranean
in waves of grey and black. I didn’t even mind the
slow winding traffic.
The
Ephrussi gardens -- The Villa Ile De France -- occupy
the prime location on Cap Ferrat. Taking up 15 acres
overlooking the sea, the garden styles go from the
formal, le francaise-- similar to Versailles -- to
the natural Provencale. Several other gardens surround
the villa: Florentine, Japanese, Spanish, Exotic,
Rosery, and the Lapidary, a whimsical combination
of ancient stone fragments left over from the building
of the villa. Gargoyles and bas-reliefs blend with
plants and flowers to create a unique effect as strong
shadows are cast from the sculptures in the small
space. The centerpiece of the entire area is The Temple
of Love with its waterfall running into and through
the center of le francaise.
The
afternoon sun was quite warm for so late in the season,
and I began to feel a bit like a wilted flower. I
found The Villa, with it’s exquisite collection of
antique furniture, open to the public. But I had no
interest. I just wanted a cup of tea and a chair in
the shade. Voila! A beautiful round room made almost
entirely of windows that look out to the garden and
the sea, had been converted into a cafe with teas,
coffees, and best yet, pastries. I sank thankfully
into a chair where I could look out at the sparkles
on the Mediterranean blue, and ordered Earl Gray tea
and a refreshing lemon tart.
Created
by the Baroness Beatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild just
before World War I, the gardens ride the sea like
an ocean liner, or so thought the baroness, who named
the property after the transatlantic ship the Ile
de France. More than any other garden of Southern
France, The Ephrussi -- as it’s commonly called --
reflects the romance of the period. The baroness was
known for her defiance, expressed by her determination
not be be stopped by what she called, "the stupid
laws of nature and common sense." She’d been told
by everyone with any sense that her property was much
too windy for the kinds of plantings she had in mind,
and she fought continually with the many gardeners
to have her own way.
As I
surveyed her creation, I had to admit that she’d been
right. She had defied the laws and won. It made me
unreasonably happy. Though the formality of most of
her garden was less to my taste than the more natural,
Serra de la Madone, her accomplishment was a gift
to the public for whom she’d always intended it.
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