Leading the Blind (3 page)

In the epilogue to
An Inland Voyage
Robert Louis Stevenson relates in his fey yet charming manner that he was arrested by a gendarme during a pedestrian tour of France soon after the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–71. The vital paper had been left behind in his valise, and neither charm nor argument prevented him being incarcerated, albeit for less than an hour, in the damp cellar of a police station. He was uncertain as to whether or not he would be detained for trial, but was released on the arrival of his more appropriately dressed companion, who vouched for him as a bona fide traveller. Even so, neither of them was allowed to continue their walk, being put on the next train for Paris.

The nineteenth century became comparatively peaceful and tolerant towards its end, but an intense spy mania nevertheless surrounded a country's defence installations. Guidebooks frequently contained the following warning, as in Baedeker's
Northern France
, 1909: ‘Sketching, photographing, or making notes near fortified places sometimes exposes innocent travellers to disagreeable suspicions or worse, and should therefore be avoided.'

In the same author's
Russia
, 1914, we are told that ‘even in less important places the guardians of the law are apt to be over-vigilant. In order to escape molestation the photographers should join the Russian Photographic Society.' In no guidebook to Britain was the traveller given similar warnings regarding arsenals and naval bases.

Such rules have of course remained in force during much of the present century. In 1967 my Finnish publisher, to whom I showed the detailed military maps I intended using to motor my way around the USSR, warned me not to take them or I would be sure to get into trouble. While driving in the Ukraine my Russian friend was plainly worried when I stopped to photograph the landscape, though neither bridges nor fortresses were visible, and he was even more harassed when I levelled my camera at the streets of Czernowitz.

Travellers have always been fair game for the secret police. In 1954 I was arrested in Barcelona and detained for a day, though not in a cell. I never knew for what reason, and after lengthy questioning and a close examination of my passport I was released.

One hopes that our Victorian traveller did not suffer too much from seasickness, having taken his luck on the weather. The boats were much smaller than they are today, and wrecks were not uncommon in the Channel. During a violent storm in January 1857 the steamer
Violet
foundered off the Goodwins. She had left Ostend the previous night, and hit the sands at two in the morning, going down with all passengers and crew.

The most agreeable crossings to the Continent must have been those enjoyed by J. P. Pearson, recounted in his three-volume magnum opus
Railways and Scenery
. In 1901 he took the ship from Grimsby to Hamburg, having bought a year's season ticket for the amazingly low price, even then, of sixty shillings. ‘The state rooms were spacious, and almost invariably each passenger (so few used this route) could have one of them all to himself. The open fire in the dining saloon was most cheery, and the writer recalls some pleasant evenings sitting around it on his trips across the North Sea.'

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.'