of green. It is the Orient without the brown, the
Occident with the sun.

The Mediterranean is more blue than elsewhere because firs and cedars and
pines are not too green. The cliffs are more red than elsewhere because
there is 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