Nice is a city of rentiers and tourists. The former rake in the dividends, while the latter admire such prestigious industry and doff their hats before their brilliant operations. In brief, a city built on such foundations has to embody the rarefied spirit of the bourgeoisie and must adopt a universal exhibition outlook, because that class’s masterpiece was naturally the universal exhibition. It was a stroke of genius to mount the astounding, dazzling enterprise here on a strip of coast that also happens to be blue. It is hardly surprising if the combination of all these wonderful features arouses waves of universal curiosity and permanent marveling.
Nice is the European city where the phenomenon of the glorification of the dividend is enacted on the vastest scale. The glorification of the dividend produces admiration for rentiers, and love for rentiers. Admiration for the man who lives on his own private income, the prestige of the finance capitalist — to speak the language of the economists — sustains the ever spiraling vitality of Nice and the Côte d’Azur. Tourists go to Nice to wallow in the contemplation of rentiers, and proclaim that nothing can beat its way of life.
I have carried out some research into the social mechanics of this admirable city. It is most unusual to find the name of a captain of industry or important entrepreneur in the local telephone book. Conversely, you will find the retired businessman, the leading renowned rentier, the widow who has managed a good sell-off, the heirs to many such glories. You will find names from everywhere. And, now that the Russian aristocracy has withdrawn from circulation and lost the aura it enjoyed on the Côte d’Azur, the place has been even more severely cut back to its strict role, namely, as we have noted, the provision of a backdrop for the glorification of the dividend.
The life of a rentier is a leisurely affair. They rise at an hour when town-hall workers are combing and polishing the palm trees in the parks. If they aren’t prey to any particular personal mania, after reading the newspaper — generally the chauvinist paper of their respective country — they sit with their backs to the sun. If they are fans of the canine species, they will walk their dogs, previously trained to defy municipal regulations and the denunciations of rentiers hostile to the canine breed. If admiration for ducks or birds warms their hearts, they go out equipped with a small bag of crumbs they scatter over the grass on the flowerbeds generally to the Olympian indifference of those august animals. Birds and ducks in Nice generally eat in the afternoon and that explains their indifference. They eat a single meal. Fond of a simpler life, other rentiers spend the morning sitting on a bench or a chair, looking at the sea or talking to friends. These conversations tend to be so deeply pessimistic they verge on the morose. Every day that passes possesses, to a greater or lesser degree, elements that enable rentiers to experience the pleasantest of pessimistic sensations. In this sense, Nice affords a wealth of magnificent raw material. Perhaps the gentleman who lives in the hotel room next to mine, whom I hear arguing with his wife, is worried because in Santiago de Chile they want to get rid of tollhouses. My neighbor on the other side is perhaps complaining about the drop in income suffered by trams in Belgrade. One never knows, and rentier pessimism, however mysterious, never ceases to be tangibly real.
In the afternoon, after taking note of the barometer’s advice, they lead the same leisurely lives as in the morning. There are concerts, family gatherings, obligatory calls to be made, sporting activities, that all help foster that necessary, indispensible lethargic atmosphere for one to be able to say the people there live on their private income. It is hardly surprising if lives so full of noble grandeur should provoke waves of universal envy. The rentier’s voluptuous languor, his morose pessimism, his life’s attractive round enthrall people. And that’s not counting the rentiers with personal manias who are the most admired. People believe manic rentiers are the aristocracy of that estate. Behind a rentier there often lurks an unknown genius, an eccentric inventor or a man exploring the oddest initiatives. That’s the burden in the rentier’s belt, the apple to bite, the apple you don’t eat because you don’t have the hunger. The pillows of these blessed aristocrats hide innumerable projects that, if carried out, would send shockwaves through the planet. However, the rentier keeps them in a putative state, and thus broadcasts his moderation and admirable spirit of self-restraint. The rentier scorns selfishness, and that is precisely what locals admire most, and tourists, even more so. Everybody suspects a genius may lurk behind the figure of the rentier. Indeed, a moderate mania becomes the most feasible manifestation of talent.
And the true rentier has no vices, apart from concealed charity. The more concealed his charity, the greater the praise in the obituary. So then, how does one explain the profusion of roulette tables in this country? I think it can only be explained in terms of a pact reached by rentiers on behalf of tourists. They reckon that admiration should be expressed through acts. The tourist has to bear the brunt so rentiers can have a clean, tidy town, a perfect police force, a good public image, and hot and cold water at a reasonable price. It’s a fine idea. The rentier declares energetically, “If they admire us, let them pay!”
And the tourist responds wistfully, after leaving his life savings on the roulette table, with a conviction that sounds deep because it is so strained, “How intelligent you are!”
This strange double game explains the glories of this city and the envy it arouses. It’s hard to think of a country with locals who are so law-abiding, so low-key in their habits and so righteous in their ideas. Dividends insist on morality because it is the backbone of the social order. Everybody knows this, day after day it is voiced in official statements; doubt is out of the question. In parallel an opposite reality asserts itself: the roulette wheel on every street corner that tests the resistance of the family institution to which the wretched tourists belong. And everybody plays his role wonderfully. Rentiers understate their positive situation and the enthusiasm aroused by their incurable pessimism. Bankrupted tourists loudly sing the praises of the excesses of a pleasant, hospitable country that enables them to enjoy nature and social life.
And such is life, á niçoise.
Gamblers can’t be fobbed off. The spectacle of the sea’s gleaming white horses, the majestic palm trees, the warm sun exuding blissful joy, the well-dressed ladies, are all first-rate. But nothing really compares with the climate for baccarat, the atmosphere around the roulette wheel or the vista of a green beige table. To visit Nice and not wonder at these marvels is like going to Rome and not seeing the Pope. I have often settled down in a corner of the Municipal Casino and observed how people, eyes bulging and hearts thudding, come and go in that cage of fortune. The gargoyles of the gaming tables! A spectacular show.
It’s strange: anyone standing in front of a gaming table automatically ages ten years. If the person is small, he becomes a doll; if he is tall, he turns into a giant. If his nose is largish, it grows into a big schnozzle; if it’s snub, it turns into a chickpea. Your vision of people ineluctably becomes a complete caricature. How horrible we all are — really! The green beige seems to appeal to the least lovely part of our nature. The blemish expands uncontrollably and our whole body is transformed. Gambling infects our weak point. No doubt about it: we men and women are much more despicable than we seem. Roulette is proof, without a ball ever swerving from its true role, namely, to provide the bank with its five and half percent. A lateral argument provides additional evidence.