Leading the Blind

CHAPTER THREE GETTING THERE

The next barrier met with by the British traveller, after the two-hour crossing, were foreigners, who made sure that having got him into their country they were not going to make it easy for him to get out, for he would discover that his passport in France was (Murray) ‘not valid for travelling through the country, nor for quitting it, until it has received the signature of the Minister of the Interior. It is therefore taken away from the traveller at the seaport where he lands, and is forwarded by the police to Paris, while a temporary passport is given him to carry him on to Paris, and 2 francs must be paid for it. Until the traveller reaches Paris this will carry him through all parts of France, but not out of the country. He cannot depart until he has exchanged it for his original passport.’

Supposing then that the traveller has more or less recovered from the crossing, he or she now has something more to worry about, for when the steamboat reaches port (Murray again) ‘the shore is usually beset by a crowd of clamorous agents for the different hotels, each vociferating the name and praises of that for which he is employed, stunning the distracted stranger with their cries, and nearly scratching his face with their proffered cards. The only mode of rescuing himself from these tormentors, who often beset him a dozen at a time, is to make up his mind beforehand to what hotel he will go, and to name it at once. The agent or Commissionaire of the house then steps forward, and the rest fall back, while he takes the new arrival under his protection, extricates him from the throng, and conducts him to his quarters.’

Even this procedure was far from simple, because passengers were not allowed to take their baggage into town with them, it being conveyed at once ‘from the vessel to the Custom-house by the Custom-house porters, who are answerable for the safety of everything. The owner, instead of appearing himself to claim it, had better send his servant, or the Commissionaire of the inn, instructing him with the keys, in order that he may open and clear each package. This is his usual duty, and the landlord of the inn, who employs him, is answerable for his honesty. Personal attendance at a Custom-house is by no means calculated to put the traveller in a good humour. Indeed, it is a severe trial to his patience, first to wait till his turn comes, amidst the elbowing of porters, and next to look on while his well-packed trunk is tossed over with a cruel, hard-hearted sort of civility which leaves nothing to complain of, and everything to lament.’ (Murray.)

Baedeker’s Paris 1874, says: ‘In order to prevent the risk of unpleasant detention at the custom-house travellers are strongly recommended to avoid carrying with them any articles that are not absolutely necessary. Cigars and tobacco are chiefly sought for by the custom-house officers. Six cigars and about an ounce of tobacco only are free of duty. Books and newspapers occasionally give rise to suspicion and may in certain cases be confiscated.’

‘Indeed,’ Murray suggests, ‘the search into baggage is often more severe in the presence of the traveller, which seems sometimes to give rise to a suggestion of smuggling. He that would keep his temper, and does not grudge a fee of two francs to the Commissionaire, will intrust to him his keys, and, dismissing the care of his baggage from his thoughts, amuse himself for an hour or so, when he will probably find his effects conveyed to his chamber, very often not opened at all, generally only slightly examined.’

Getting into Abroad threatened at times to become an obstacle race, though Murray endeavours to prevent the British traveller from turning it into an assault course. ‘Those who would travel with comfort should be particularly on their guard against rendering themselves liable to detection or penalty at the foreign Customhouses. They should avoid taking anything which is contraband, either for themselves or for their friends; for it too often happens that travellers on the continent are meanly solicited to take those things for their friends who are abroad which they dare not send by the public conveyance, thus rendering their travelling friends liable to penalty and punishment.’

If after such Kafka-like turmoil our gentleman-traveller wishes to recuperate for a few days in the Calais area, before proceeding to Paris, there are several hotels to choose from. First on the list is the Hotel Dessin, said to be very good, one of whose rooms was slept in by the author of A Sentimental Journey, still marked as ‘Sterne’s Room’. Also singled out is that which was occupied by Sir Walter Scott.

Murray describes the sights of the town and gives something of its history, then goes on to tell us, should the traveller wish to make a romantic pilgrimage, that ‘Lady Hamilton (Nelson’s Emma) died here in great misery. Her remains, refused a resting place in consecrated ground, were interred in a timber-yard, about 20 yards beyond the Port de Calais.’

Should the traveller be tempted to take a day’s trip down the coast to Boulogne he will find a quarter of the population to be English. The town is within eight hours of London, Murray says, and has become ‘one of the chief British colonies abroad; and, by a singular reciprocity, on the very spot whence Napoleon proposed the invasion of our shores, his intended victims have quietly taken possession and settled themselves down. The town is enriched by English money; warmed, lighted, and smoked by English coal; English signs and advertisements decorate every other shop door, inn, tavern, and lodging house; and almost every third person you meet is either a countryman or speaking our language; while the outskirts of the town are enlivened by villas and country houses, somewhat in the style and taste of those on the opposite side of the Channel. There are at least 120 boarding schools for youth of both sexes, many of them under English managers.’

Thackeray in Vanity Fair gives a further view of English travellers on the Continent, those among them who have ‘swindled in all the capitals of Europe. The respect in those happy days of 1817–18 was very great for the wealth and honour of Britons. They had not then learned, as I am told, to haggle for bargains with the pertinacity which now distinguishes them. The great cities of Europe had not been as yet open to the enterprise of our rascals. And whereas there is now hardly a town of France or Italy in which you shall not see some noble countryman of our own, with that happy swagger and insolence of demeanour which we carry everywhere, swindling inn-landlords, passing fictitious cheques upon credulous bankers, robbing coachmakers of their carriages, goldsmiths of their trinkets, easy travellers of their money at cards — even libraries of their books: thirty years ago you needed but to be a Milor Anglais, travelling in a private carriage, and credit was at your hand wherever you chose to seek it, and gentlemen, instead of cheating, were cheated.’

If our traveller at Calais was already regretting his departure from home the pier jutting out from the shore gave an occasional view of the white cliffs of England. This must have been a tantalizing sight to those who were also exiles, ‘fugitives from creditors, or compelled from other causes,’ hints Murray, ‘to leave their homes: a numerous class both here and at Boulogne. There are many of our countrymen besides, who reside merely for the purpose of economising; so that the place is half Anglicised, and our language generally spoken.’

Murray also mentions the local fishermen and their wives, who dress in picturesque costume and occupy their own quarter of the town, where the streets, ‘are draped with nets hung out from the fronts of the houses to dry, and in dress and manners they are distinct from the rest of the inhabitants, speaking a peculiar patois, and rarely intermarrying with the other townsfolk. They are an industrious and very hardworking race, especially the women, and very religious: the perils and vicissitudes of their hard life reminding them more nearly than other classes of their dependence on Providence.’

According to Baedeker, the men’s wives are called matelottes, and ‘exercise unlimited sway on shore, whilst the sea is the undisputed domain of their husbands’.

During a pause in his solitary walk along the seafront, or while sitting in the dining room of his hotel over a long half-English meal, our traveller may ponder on the remarks in his handbook concerning accommodation in the rest of France. He will not be reassured, for Murray tells him that: ‘On the whole, the inns of France are very inferior to those of Germany and Switzerland, in the want of general comfort, and above all of cleanliness — their greatest drawback. There is an exception to this, however, in the bed and table linen. Even the filthy cabaret, whose kitchen and salon are scarcely endurable to look at, commonly affords napkins and table-cloths clean, though coarse and rough, and beds with unsullied sheets and white draperies, together with well-stuffed mattresses and pillows, which put German cribs and feather-beds to shame.’

Presumably referring to the toilet facilities, he goes on: ‘Many of the most important essentials, on the other hand, are utterly disregarded, and evince a state of grossness and barbarism hardly to be expected in a civilised country; the provisions for personal ablution are very defective: the washing of floors, whether of timber or tile, seems unknown. In the better hotels, indeed, the floors are polished as tables are in England, with brushes attached to the feet instead of the hands; but in most cases they are black with the accumulated filth of years, a little water being sprinkled on them from time to time to lay the dust and increase the dark crust of dirt.’

Murray divides French hotels into two classes: ‘Those which make some pretension to study English tastes and habits (and a few of them have some claim to be considered comfortable), and being frequented by Englishmen, are very exorbitant in their charges.’ Then: ‘Those in remote situations, not yet corrupted to exorbitance by the English and their couriers; where the traveller who can conform with the customs of the country is treated fairly, and charged no higher than a Frenchman.’

The traveller is advised to bargain for a room on arrival at an inn, though he is told to be careful because doing so can ‘sometimes lead the landlord to suppose that you are going to beat him down, and he may therefore name a higher price than he is willing to take, and thus you may cause the exorbitance which you intend to prevent.’

French hotels are nevertheless compared favourably to those in Germany, since they will ‘furnish at almost any hour of the day, at 10 minutes or ¼ hour’s notice, a well-dressed dinner of 8 or 10 dishes, at a cost not greatly exceeding that of the table-d’hôte. In remote places and small inns, never order dinner at a higher price than 3 francs: the people have only the same food to present, even if they charged 10 francs. A capital dinner is usually furnished at 4 fr. a-head; but the traveller who goes post in his own carriage will probably be charged 6, unless he specifies the price beforehand.’

It was usual to dine at a common table in French inns, but Murray says they are ‘rarely resorted to by the most respectable townspeople, or by ladies, as in Germany. The majority of the company almost invariably consists of commercial travellers but of a stamp very inferior to those of the same class in England, who swarm in all the inns, and are consequently the most important personages. Without denying that there are exceptions among these gentry, it is impossible to have sojourned in France for any time without the conviction that a more selfish, depraved, and vulgar, if not brutal, set does not exist, and gentlemen will take good care not to encourage their approaches, and to keep a distance from them. They commonly sit down to table with their hats on, and scramble for the dishes, so that the stranger who is not on the alert is likely to fare very ill; and if females be present, not only do not pay them that attention which is customary in all civilised countries at a dinner-table, and used at one time to distinguish the French, but, as Mrs. Trollope remarks, constantly “use language which no Englishman would dream of uttering in their presence,” evincing an utter want of all sense of propriety and decency. English ladies, therefore, will be cautious of presenting themselves at a French table-d’hôte, except in first-rate hotels, where English guests form a considerable part of the company, and at well-frequented watering-places.’

In confirmation of the above, Delacroix remarks in his notebook (1855) that the effect of a good meal in the provinces ‘was not entirely spoiled by the company of some commercial travellers, whose chatter is always the same mixture of nonsense and ineptness’.

Various guidebooks convince our traveller that he may need several periods of repose, as well as a few large brandies, before setting out on his journey to the interior. The cafés in which he may have to bide his time when he gets there received a somewhat better press than the hotels:

‘We have no equivalent in England for the Cafés in France, and the number and splendour of some of these establishments, everywhere seemingly out of proportion to the population and to other shops, not only in Paris, but in every provincial town, may well excite surprise. They are adapted to all classes of society, from the magnificent salon, resplendent with looking-glass, and glittering with gliding, the decorations of which have perhaps cost 4000 or 5000 pounds, down to the low and confined estaminets, resorted to by carters, porters, and common labourers, which abound in the back streets of every town, and in every village, however small and remote. The latter sort occupy the place of the beer-shops of England, furnish beer and brandy, as well as coffee, and, though not so injurious to health and morals as the gin-palaces of London, are even more destructive of time: indeed, the dissipation of precious hours by almost all classes in France produces as bad an effect on the habits of the people.’ (Murray.)

Such pompous moralizing did not admit that even the gentleman-traveller might at times be guilty of dissipating the precious hours. Certainly, the French seemed more able to enjoy life than their English counterparts, for in the evening the cafés ‘are most crowded, and even in the most respectable (except the first-rate Parisian cafés) the company is very mixed. Clerks, tradesmen, commercial travellers, soldiers — officers as well as privates, and men in blouzes, crowded about a multitude of little marble tables, wrangle over provincial or national politics, or over games of cards or dominoes, while others perspiring in their shirt-sleeves surround the billiard-table. The rattling of balls, the cries of waiters hurrying to and fro, the gingling of dominoes, and tinkling bell of the mistress who presides at the bar, alone prevail over the harsh din of many voices, while the splendour of mirrored walls and velvet seats is eclipsed behind a cloud of unfragrant tobacco-smoke.’ What a picture of pleasure island for the sin-preoccupied English!

However many days our traveller stayed in Calais or Boulogne, he had sooner or later to pay his hotel bill, before setting out for the fleshpots of Paris. Twenty-five francs to the English sovereign allowed him to live well and cheaply, his room costing about two shillings a night, something like five pounds at today’s rates. Dinner and breakfast would add on another ten, amounting to forty-five pounds for three days of demi-pension. Baedeker advises that ‘the bill should be obtained every two or three days, in order that errors, whether accidental or designed, may be detected. When the traveller intends to start in the morning, he had better pay, or at least examine, his bill over night, as overcharges are apt to escape detection in the hurry and confusion of departure.’

In 1848 the quickest way of getting to Paris from the coast was to take the diligence as far as Arras or Abbeville, then go by recently opened railway. ‘France has allowed herself to be outstripped by her neighbours, not only by England, but also by Belgium, Prussia, and Austria, in these means of extending national resources and civilisation, which the country more especially stands in need of.’ (Murray.)

Murray describes the diligence as being a ‘huge, heavy, lofty, lumbering machine, something between an English stage and a broad-wheeled waggon.’

It is composed of three parts or bodies joined together: 1. the front division, called Coupé, shaped like a chariot, holding 3 persons, quite distinct from the rest of the passengers, so that ladies may resort to it without inconvenience, and, by securing all 3 places to themselves, travel nearly as comfortably as in a private carriage. The fare is more expensive than in the other parts of the vehicle.

2. Next to it comes the inside, holding 6 persons, and oppressively warm in summer.

3. Behind this is attached the Rotonde, ‘the receptacle of dust, dirt, and bad company,’ the least desirable part of the diligence.

The Banquette, an outside seat on the roof of the coupé, tolerably well protected from rain and cold by a hood or head, and leather apron, but somewhat difficult of access until you are accustomed to climb up into it. It affords a comfortable and roomy seat by the side of the conductor, with the advantages of fresh air and the best view of the country from its great elevation, and greater freedom from the dust than those enjoy who sit below. It is true you may sometimes meet rough and low-bred companions, for the French do not like to travel outside; and few persons of the better class resort to it, except English, and they for the most part prefer it to all others. It is not suited to females, owing to the difficulty of clambering up to it.

What no guidebook mentions — nor the phrase manuals of the age either — is the problem of land sickness when travelling by a badly sprung coach on sometimes indifferent roads. Almost as common as seasickness, all we get in the way of chit-chat from phrase books dealing with road travel are: ‘Can I take my dogs with me by coach?’

‘Are there any robbers on the road?’

‘Keep away from the ditch: it is a bog full of mud. You must put on the drag.’

‘If you drive well, and behave yourself civilly, I shall give you something for drink-money.’

The coaches in France were ruled over by a conductor who was ‘paid by the administration, and expects nothing from the passengers, unless he obliges them by some extra service. He is generally an intelligent person, often an old soldier, and the traveller may pick up some information from him.’

Though the methods of transport were far slower in the 1840s, they resembled the holiday procedures in France today, in that during the month of August ‘the diligences on all the great roads are thronged with school-boys and collegians, with their parents and masters, in consequence of the breaking up of the establishments of education in Paris, all hurrying home at once into the provinces’.

On the way to Abbeville or Arras our traveller will learn from Murray’s Hand-Book of Travel Talk how to get himself and his impedimenta safely into the train. The diligence, said to be more roomy than an English stagecoach, and therefore less tiring, went at the rate of about six miles an hour, and even less when the roads were bad, so there was sufficient time to practise the few phrases necessary: ‘Pray, Sir, where is the railway station? Where can one get tickets? Where is the luggage-office? I hear the whistle of a train which is arriving.’

If our traveller, after a fight for his seat, becomes bored with looking out of the window — at better scenery as the train went south — perhaps he will go back to his handbook and read the section on ‘The English Abroad’: ‘It may not be amiss to consider the causes which render the English so unpopular on the Continent; as to the fact of their being so, it is to be feared there can be no doubt. In the first place, it arises from the number of ill-conditioned persons who, not being in condition to face the world at home, scatter themselves over foreign lands, and bring no little discredit upon their country. But in addition to these, there are many respectable and wealthy persons, who, through inattention, unguardedness, wanton expenditure in some cases, niggardly parsimony in others, but, above all, from an unwillingness to accommodate themselves to the feelings of the people they are among, contribute not a little to bring their own nation into disrepute. The Englishman abroad too often forgets that he is the representative of his country, and that his countrymen will be judged by his own conduct; that by affability, moderation, and being easily pleased, he will conciliate; whereas by caprice, extravagant squandering, or ill-timed niggardliness, he affects the reception of the next comer.’

Eugene Delacroix, in 1855, recorded in his notebook that, in the train from Dieppe to Rouen, there were three Englishmen in the first-class carriage whom ‘you would suppose comfortably off. They were very badly dressed, especially one who was really dirty, his clothes were even torn. I do not understand this complete contrast with their former habits; I noticed the same thing on my trip to Baden and Strasbourg. A day or two later, when I was making my examination of the pictures, I met Lord Elcho, and even his clothes were not particularly clean. The English have changed entirely and we French, on the other hand, have adopted many of their former habits.’

‘There are many points, however,’ continued Murray, ‘in which our character is misunderstood by foreigners. The morose sullenness attributed by them to Englishmen is, in perhaps nine cases out of ten, nothing more than involuntary silence, arising from his ignorance of foreign languages, or at least from his want of sufficient fluency to make himself rapidly understood, which prevents his enjoying society. If an Englishman were fully aware how much it increased the pleasure and profit of travelling to have made some progress in foreign languages before he sets foot on the Continent, no one would think of quitting home until he had devoted at least some months to hard labour with grammars and dictionaries.’

Our traveller being young and rich will be allowed to feel at ease on the Continent, however, and throwing aside such pompous strictures with a smile of superior amusement, joyfully commit himself to the diversions of Paris, the undoubted capital city of the civilized world.