Wintering in the Riviera
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Title: Wintering in the Riviera
Author: William James Miller
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTERING IN THE RIVIERA ***
[Illustration: VIEW FROM FOOT–BRIDGE OVER CARREI, MENTONE.]
WINTERING IN THE RIVIERA
WITH
NOTES OF TRAVEL IN ITALY AND FRANCE
AND
_PRACTICAL HINTS TO TRAVELLERS_
BY
WILLIAM MILLER, S.S.C.
EDINBURGH
With Illustrations
LONDON: LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 1879.
[_All Rights Reserved._]
MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH,
PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY’S STATIONERY OFFICE.
THIS VOLUME,
CONTAINING MEMORIES OF HIS BELOVED DAUGHTER’S LAST JOURNEYINGS,
IS INSCRIBED TO
CHRISTOPHER GODWIN, ESQ., J.P.,
STOKE BISHOP, BRISTOL.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE, x
I.
_CONTINENTAL TRAVELLING._
Former and Present
Times—Bugbears—Language—Passports—Impedimenta—Guide–Books—
Hotels—Money and Exchange—Routes to Paris—Cook’s and Gaze’s
Railway Tickets—_Voyages circulaires_—Supplementary Billets
—Customs Examination—Time—Railway Arrangements—Billets—_Salle
d’attente_—Guards and Porters—Carriages—_Dames seules_—Smoking
—Carriage Windows—Speed—Train Peculiarities—Stations—Omnibuses
—_Petite vitesse_, 1
II.
_HOTEL AND PENSION LIFE._
Hotels—Railway
Results—Construction—Lifts—Charges—Bougies—Service—Rooms—Meals
—Breakfast—Lunch—_Table–d’hôte_ Dinner—Supplies—Wine—Dining
_à la Carte_—Foreign Practices—Life at Table—Pension—Charges
—Extras—Fires—Gratuities—Bills—Cook’s and Gaze’s Coupons
—Amusements—Tarantella Dance—Remuneration to Performers
—Charades—Readings—Plays—Amateur Performances—Musical Bands
—Furnished Villas—Cost—Servants, 43
III.
_LOCAL MEANS OF CONVEYANCE._
Private Carriages—Horses—Carriages for Hire—Whip–Cracking
—Cruelty to Horses—Italian Cabs and Cabmen—Horse Bells
—Fares—_Pour boire_ and _buona mano_—Drives beyond Town
—Crossing Swiss Passes—Diligences—Steamboat Travelling
—Omnibuses—Tramways, 82
IV.
_POSTAL ARRANGEMENTS._
Post Rates for Letters—Underpaid Letters—Newspapers—Registration
—Letters for Interior—Post Cards—Delivery—_Poste restante_
—Pillars—Postmen, 98
V.
_SUNDAY ABROAD._
As observed by Natives—English Influence—Public Music—Museums,
etc.—Carnival—Fêtes—Elections—Post Delivery—Dinner—Evening
Engagements—Sunday Books—Roman Catholic Service—Protestantism
—Native Protestant Churches—France—Mentone—Italy—Switzerland
—Protestant Churches for English—Presbyterian—The Chapels
—Ministers—English Episcopal—Ritualism abroad—Hours of Service
—Growing Liberality of Feeling—A Practical Suggestion
—Conclusion of Service, 105
FIRST WINTER IN THE RIVIERA.
VI.
_LONDON TO SOUTH OF FRANCE._
_Folkestone_—Passage—_Paris_—Railway Journey from Paris—
_Fontainebleau_—_Dijon_—_Macon_—The Rhone—_Avignon_—_Nimes_
—_Marseilles_, 127
VII.
_CANNES._
Arrival—Description of Cannes—The Bays—Estrelles—Grasse—Lord
Brougham—Duke of Vallombrosa’s Villa—the Eucalyptus—Croix
de Garde—Promenade—Bathing Places—Drains—Garden of the
Hesperides—Arbutus—Croisette—California—S. Marguerite—Fort
Monterey—Use of Marble—Mosquitoes, Snakes, and Lizards, 144
VIII.
_NICE._
Cannes to Nice—Appearance of—The Chateau—The Paillon Torrent
Bed—Nice as a Health Resort—Hotels and Public Places—Nice
to Mentone, 159
IX.
_MENTONE._
First Impression—Old Town—Mountain Shelter—West Bay—Tideless
Sea—Drains—Olive Terraces—Valleys—Rivers—Rurality—Quarters
—Doctors—The Hotels—Pension Charges—Furnished Houses or
Rooms—Helvetia—Churches—School and Classes—Public Institutions
—Newspapers—Guide–Books—Mentone by Night—Donkey Excursions
—Castellar—Rain and Storm—Gorge of St. Louis—The Carrei Valley
—View from Bridge—Boirigo Valley—St. Agnes—Castle—Monastery of
S. Annunciata and Chapel—The Gorbio Valley—Gorbio—Rochebrune
—Cape Martin—Red Rocks and Caves—The Fossil Skeleton—Hanging
Gardens—Belinda—Grimaldi—Promenade du Midi—Life on the
Promenade—French Attire and Customs—_Monte Carlo_—Gaming Tables
—the Garden—Pigeon–shooting—_Monaco_—Mentone Villas—Gardens
—Shops—Circulating Libraries—Industrial Occupations—Washing
Clothes—Fishing—Sheep–keeping—Donkey–letting—Woodwork—Town and
Rural Labourers—Animal Labour—Birds—Mosquitoes—Deaths—Funerals
—Cemetery—the Evenings—Red–letter Days—Christmas Day—New Year’s
Day—Conscription Day—Carnival—Corsica—Weather during Winter, 166
ITALY.
X.
_SAN REMO AND GENOA._
Cross Frontier—The _douane_—_Ventimiglia_—_Bordighera_—_San
Remo_—Climate—San Remo described—Excursions—Hotels
and Pensions—Visitors—Doctors—Churches—Industries–The
Women—Photographs—San Remo to Genoa—Italian Money—Fares—Coast
Towns—Savona—Pegli—_Genoa_—Position and Appearance—Statue of
Columbus—Hotel Rooms—Drive through Town—S. Maria di Carignano
—The Streets—Palaces—Churches—Public Park—Campo Santo, 237
XI.
_SPEZIA, PISA, SIENNA._
Railway to Spezia—Hotel—Cold Weather—_Spezia_, a Summer
Place—Described—Carrara Marble Quarries—_Pisa_—Leaning Tower
—Cathedral Baptistery—Campo Santo—The Town—Drive to _Lucca_
—_Sienna_—Position—Collegio Tolomei—Cathedral—Its Library
—Frescoes—Piazza Vittorio Emanuele—Town Hall and other Places
—Citadel—Italian Soldiers, 263
XII.
_ROME._
Quarters—Piazza di Spagna—Carriages—The seeing Rome—First Sunday
—Scotch Church—Castle of St. Angelo—St. Peter’s—Piazza—Interior
—Apostle Peter in Rome—St. Peter’s Aisles and Altars—Mosaics
—Ascent of Dome—Palm Sunday—The Vatican—Sculptures—Pictures
—Sistine Chapel—Preliminary Drive through Town—The Streets,
Buildings, etc.—Lecturers on Rome—The Colosseum—Rome’s Birthday
Illuminations—Arches of Constantine and Titus—Old Roman Roads
—Forum Romanum—The Capitol—Church of Ara Cœli—The Museums
—Palatine Hill—Palace of the Cæsars—Temple of Vesta—Cloaca
Maxima—Monumental Pillars, Trajan’s—M. Aurelius—The Obelisks
—Aqueducts—Baths of Caracalla—Columbaria—Catacombs of Callixtus
—Appian Way—The Churches—Pantheon—S. Pietro in Vincoli—Jesuit
Church—Capuccini—S. Clemente—SS. Cosma e Damiano—The Lateran
—Santa Scala—S. Maria Maggiore—S. Paolo fuori le mura—The
Palaces—Contents of Galleries—Engravings and Photographs of
Pictures—Copying Pictures—The Rospigliosi—Guido’s Aurora—The
Barberini—Beatrice Cenci—Other Galleries and Studios—The Royal
Palace—Borghese Grounds and Casino—Pincian Hill Gardens—Drive
to Tivoli—The Campagna—Hadrian’s Villa—_Tivoli_—S. Lorenzo fuori
le mura—Shop Purchases—Photographs—Mosaic Jewellery—Bronzes
—Copies of Paintings—Old Rome as it was, 275
XIII.
_NAPLES, POMPEII, SORRENTO._
_Naples_, Drive through—Cabs and
Cabmen—Population—Thieving—Bay of Naples—Town
described—Cathedral—Hotels—Museum—Chiaja—Aquarium—Photographs
—Bijouterie—_Castellamare_—_Pompeii_—Museum—Excavations—Old
City—Public Buildings—Private Dwellings—Streets—Shops—
_Sorrento_—Excursions—Capri Blue Grotto—Sorrento Woodwork
—Beggars—Return to Naples—_Puteoli_—Amphitheatre—Solfatara, 322
XIV.
_FLORENCE AND BOLOGNA._
_Florence_—Situation—Lung’Arno—Florence described—Bridges—S.
Miniato—Piazza Michel Angelo—Fiesole—The Streets—Cascine
—Historical Associations—Churches—Cathedral—Campanile
—Baptistery—Misericordia—S. Croce—Chapel and Tombs of the
Medici—Museum of S. Marco—S. Spirito—Piazza della Signoria
—Loggia—Palazzo Vecchio—House of Michael Angelo—Uffizi Gallery
—Pitti Gallery—Artists copying—National Museum—Palazzo Corsini
—Academia delle Belle Arti—Association for Encouragement of
Fine Arts—Florentine Marbles and Mosaics—Italian Lungs—
_Bologna_—Drive through Town—Leaning Towers—Museum and Library
—S. Petronio—Villa Reale—Campo Santo—S. Domenico—S. Pietro
—Academia delle Belle Arti, 343
XV.
_VENICE AND VERONA._
_Venice_—Railway Station—Hotel Danieli—Bridge of Sighs—S. Marco
—The Presbyterio—Clock Tower—Piazza and its Shops—Venetian
Glass—Gondola—Island of S. Georgio—La Guidica—Churches of
Venice—Palaces—Doge’s Palace—S. Marco—Whitsunday—Mosaics
—Campanile—Ponte di Rialto—Museo Correr—Academia delle Belle
Arti—Arsenal—Lido—Moonlight—Is Venice healthy? Grand Canal
—_Verona_—Drive through Town—Market–Place—Piazza dei Signori
—Tombs of Scaligers—Arena—S. Zenone—Other Churches—Tomb and
Window of Juliet, 361
XVI.
_MILAN AND THE ITALIAN LAKES._
_Milan_—Cathedral—Ceremonies—Ascent—Piazza—Galleria—Drive about
Town—Piazza d’Armi—Arco della Pace—Amphitheatre—S. Ambrogio—S.
Lorenzo—Public Park—Novel Mode of Watering—Temperature
—_Italian Lakes_—Arona—_Maggiore_—Baveno—_Lugano_—S. Salvatore
—Luini’s Frescoes—_Bellaggio_—Hotel Grand Bretagne—_Lake Como_
—Villa Serbelloni—Villa Carlotta—Villa Melzi—Sail to _Como_—St.
Giovanni—Hot Days, 380
SWITZERLAND—FRANCE.
XVII.
_THE SPLUGEN PASS, SWITZERLAND._
Sail to Colico—_Chiavenna_—_Splugen Pass_—Campo Dolcino—Madesimo
Fall—Summit of Pass—Descent to Splugen—_Switzerland_—_Splugen_
—Via Mala—Thusis—_Ragatz_—Pfäffers Gorge—Lucerne—_Interlachen_
—Run Home—_Chateau d’Œx_—Sepey—Aigle—_Montreux_—_Geneva_, 401
XVIII.
_BIARRITZ._
Lyons—_Cette_—_Toulouse_—Lourdes—Pau—Bayonne—_Biarritz_—Railway
Station—Hotels—Cold Winds—Recent Origin of Town—Description
—The Season—Natural Attractions—Storms—Breakwater—Boating—Rocks
—Tide—Drains—Bathing Establishments—Bathing—The Bathers—Dresses
—The Scene—Aquatics—Walks—Light–house—Villa Eugenie—Drive to
_Bayonne_—Its Fortifications—Bridges—_St. Jean de Luz_—Excursion
to _S. Sebastian_, Spain—Season ends, 415
XIX.
_PAU._
Imposing Appearance—Pension Colbert—The Season—Climate—Writers
on—Rise of Pau—Town—View of Pyrenees—Chateau—Public Park
—Environs—Excursions—The Cemetery—French General Election, 439
XX.
_SECOND WINTER IN THE RIVIERA._
Pau to Toulouse—_Montpellier_—Climate—Town—Train to Marseilles
—_Toulon_—_Hyères_—Hotels—Climate—Garden—La Plage—Hyères to
Cannes—Mentone—Cold Weather—Improvements—More Building
—Political Position in France—Eastern Question—English Position
causes Anxiety—Death of Victor Emmanuel and Pope—Services in
Cathedral—Carnival—Gaieties—Mentone to S. Remo—S. Remo to
Alassio—_Alassio_—Hotels—Town—Situation—Walks and Views—Dr.
Schneer on Climate—_Genoa_—Via Orifici—Galleria, etc.—_Turin_
—View of Alps from Monastery—The Town—Monuments—Waldensian
Church—Mont Cenis Tunnel—_Aix les Bains_—Return Home, 450
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
1. Frontispiece—View from Footbridge up the Carrei to North
Mountain Range, Mentone.
2. The Estrelles from St. Honorat, Cannes, Facing 147
3. Oil Mills, Carrei Valley, Mentone, ” 191
4. Promenade du Midi, Mentone, ” 205
5. Corsica as occasionally seen before Sunrise, Mentone, ” 235
6. A City set upon a Hill on Road to Lucca, ” 271
7. Sorrento from the West, ” 337
8. Ponte Vecchio, Florence, ” 345
9. Tomb of Juliet, Verona, ” 379
10. Bellaggio, Lake Como, ” 393
11. Port Vieux Bathing Establishment, Biarritz, ” 421
12. Biarritz Bathers, ” 429
PREFACE.
THE health of my wife having rendered it advisable to spend a winter
in the South of France, I made arrangements to accompany her, and we
left home in October 1876. After a short stay at Cannes and three
months in Mentone, with marked improvement, we made a tour of four
months in Italy, and then passing the remainder of the summer of 1877
in Switzerland, and the autumn chiefly in Biarritz and Pau, we spent
a second winter in the Riviera, principally in Mentone, returning to
England _viâ_ Turin in May 1878.
* * * * *
We had visited so many places, and seen so much while thus travelling
during our first year, that it occurred to me, during our second
sojourn at Mentone, to write out some notes of what had come within our
knowledge which might prove both useful and interesting to others, and
particularly to those who desired to winter in the Riviera. The field,
however, was large, and to bring observation into reasonable compass
I could only present general views—indications merely—of what we had
seen; and, indeed, more than this I could scarcely have ventured upon,
because I had not travelled with any idea of writing on the subject,
and the notes I had kept were therefore scanty, although sufficient,
with a vivid recollection of so much calculated to impress, to enable
me to describe, as far as description is perhaps desirable. We saw
much, and might have seen more within the time, but it was necessary to
avoid fatigue.
* * * * *
The descriptions contained in the following pages are therefore to be
regarded not as finished pictures, but rather as the scenes of a moving
panorama, exhibiting in succession views of the more salient points
in the various places to which the reader will be taken, and depicted
according to the fashion of such scenes, too roughly to bear close
inspection or minute criticism.
* * * * *
When people were compelled to travel slowly, they could take with
them, and had time to read and digest full narratives of all they were
about to see. It was by no means impossible to carry in the lumbering
carriage, or to read during the leisurely journey, a whole library of
such voluminous and now forgotten books as the _Modern Traveller_. But
the rapidity of railway travelling has changed even the character of
the guide–book, which, with more copious and complete information, has
been so clipped and condensed, been made so concisely and methodically
useful,—such a veritable _multum in parvo_,—that every other virtue is
forgotten, and to take up a volume of Bædeker in order to beguile an
hour, or even to obtain a general notion of a place, would be one of
those freaks of which wise men are not readily guilty.
People are therefore more than ever thrown upon reading of a different
description; and notwithstanding the various books which have been
published upon the Riviera, and the still larger list of those upon
Italy, I think none of them, so far as I have seen, are exactly on
the same lines as the present. It is, indeed, not a little noticeable
that so many, in writing upon Italy, should have chosen to wrap their
descriptions in some strange, weird story. In _Corinne ou L’Italie_,
Madame de Staël depicts an exotic Scotch nobleman wildly drawn about
from one part of Italy to another by a most extraordinary platonic love
for an Italian improvisatrice, in order that the different localities
may obtain description. The _Improvisatore_ of Hans Christian Andersen,
with a difference of mode, is much upon the same model for the same
purpose, the machinery by which the hero is blown hither and thither
being much more prominent than the places upon which he alights. The
_Transformation_ of Hawthorne, in order to describe Rome, forces us
into strange scenes and into company with a mysterious ‘faun’ and a
beautiful murderess; while _Romola_, by George Eliot, in describing
Florence, drags us after a smooth–faced, smooth–tongued, heartless
villain, who attains to power with an odd facility, and after blasting
a lovely life, is, to every reader’s relief, tragically removed from
the world. Even Ruffini’s _Dr. Antonio_, commencing amidst placid
scenes with all the softness of a _pastorale_, terminates by breaking
hearts, and in the din of a revolution, with guns crashing and roll of
death–dealing musketry on the streets of Naples.
Amongst its many deficiencies, the present volume is undoubtedly
wanting in this sensational element of popularity.
Neither, on the other hand, can it lay claim to the merit of filling
the place either of the guide–book or of the medical adviser. Its chief
utility may be in giving in a general way to those designing to go
abroad for a period of time, some knowledge which may perhaps aid them
where to go and what to see; while there is furnished for the benefit
of novices, in the preliminary chapters, some practical information,
which the experienced traveller, who knows it all and could state it
much better, will be graciously pleased, if so inclined, to skip.
* * * * *
In revising at home what was written abroad, I have studied to ensure
accuracy of statement, and have been rather surprised, on comparing
authorities, to find how widely they frequently differ regarding
matters involving figures, so much so that occasionally I have withheld
any statement on the subject. Some of these discrepancies I have
noticed.
* * * * *
Accurate ideas of places can be best formed with the aid of the
pictorial art. A book of this nature is susceptible of endless
illustration, and but for adding to the bulk and the expense, there
could have been no difficulty in illustrating every page of the
travels. I have preferred selecting a few subjects, nearly all from my
own sketches, which have been lithographed by Waterston of Edinburgh.
That of the Estrelles is from a sketch in colours by a lady friend.
Of these illustrations, Mentone has carried off the lion’s share,
and perhaps rightly, because of all the places of health resort
visited by us, we conceived it to be the most charming, and it was
in the winter–time our headquarters. There are those who prefer
Cannes, Hyères, Bordighera, or San Remo. Even Alassio may become a
favourite residence. But it was our opinion that Mentone unites to a
well–sheltered, dry, sunny, winter climate (which is, however, not
suitable for all invalids), the most beautiful and picturesque scenery,
the most delightful walks and excursions, with a fascinating rurality
which, I fear, the natives, looking at the matter from a French point
of view, are bent on destroying, by way of raising it up as a sort of
rival in gaiety to such places as Nice. There is one drawback, in its
proximity to the Monte Carlo gambling tables. But to those who can
resist temptation, a trip to Monte Carlo—a bright, beautiful, sunny
spot, clean and tidy, with its tropical gardens, its broad terraces,
flanked by elegant white stone balustrades—is only an additional
attraction; while the adjoining unique peninsula of Monaco, running out
into the sea from the mountains of the _Tête de Chien_, and crowned by
its palace, its fortifications, its dwellings, its trees, is one of the
many attractive points which, combined with the beautiful blue of the
Mediterranean, lend such a charm to this part of the Riviera.
* * * * *
This book would probably never have been written had it not been
begun and all but completed abroad, while in the sunshine of gladness
and hope. Looking to the cause of our travels, it was unavoidable
that I should mention at its close how sadly all hopes were crushed.
But I have striven as far as possible to eschew the introduction of
all merely personal allusions. I feel, however, I must take this
opportunity of thanking the members of the legal body to which I
belong, and of which I had, at the time it became advisable to leave
home, the honour of being chief office–bearer, for their courtesy to me
then, and for the heartfelt sympathy which so many of them have since
expressed. I would only say to them as to others, that we have had of
late not a few examples of valued friends who, long after it became
really necessary, have toiled, and fagged, and wearied their brains out
in the pursuit of an anxious and laborious profession till they have
spent their last days or years in utter prostration. Better far, when
they can, to obtain thorough relaxation in the enjoyment of a year, or
even two years, of Continental travel over such interesting ground as
in this book I have attempted in some small measure to describe.
W. M.
GEORGE SQUARE,
EDINBURGH, _July 1879_.
ERRATA.
Page 27, 19th line, instead of _for_ read _from_.
” 38, 9th line from bottom, for _any_ read _every_.
” 60, 5th line, for _visible_ read _visibile_.
” 91–3–4, for _manu_ read _mano_.
” 272, 7th line from bottom, for _tombs_ read _tomes_.
” ” 5th ” for _his_ read _this_.
” 305, for _Clementi_ read _Clemente_.
” 320, 11th line, for _have_ read _leave_.
” 369, 1st line, for _et_ read _e_.
I.
_CONTINENTAL TRAVELLING._
I HAVE sometimes thought that if it were possible for a person of
mature years now living to return to the world, with memory unimpaired,
after a period of five hundred or even of one hundred years hence,
how strangely new to him everything would appear! Events succeed each
other in these times with such startling rapidity, that he would be a
bold man who would venture to predict what even a generation will bring
forth. We may speculate on the effects likely to result from agencies
now in operation,—as to what, for example, may be the future of Great
Britain, looking to the gigantic scale on which hazardous enterprise
is carried on; to the contests of labour with capital in which natural
laws are set at defiance; to the growth of Ritualism in the English
Church; to the penchant which our rulers seem to have for annexing
or conquering remote provinces, stern and wild or insalubrious; to a
thousand other things which are with more or less force influencing or
disquieting our country commercially, socially, or politically,—but
none of us can possibly foresee the actual consequences and the
condition of things to which they will lead. In the future there is
so much dependent on occurrences which appear to us to be fortuitous
(though truly under the guidance of Supreme Wisdom), that we can only
feel that over all there hangs an impenetrable veil of mysterious
darkness. A single unexpected event may turn aside the policy of an
age, or even alter the divisions of the world. A single man by a
foolish blunder may plunge nations into protracted war. A single happy
discovery, a single clever invention, may affect the fortunes or alter
the habits of a whole people. A single convulsion of nature may change
the aspect of a state. But when we turn from the future to the past,
the case is different, and we can pretty well realize what the feelings
of one who has lived, say, sixty years ago would be if he could now
return to earth. It would, indeed, be some time ere he would begin to
grasp the extent of the wonderful changes which, since he formerly
lived, have been effected. But of all the changes flowing from the
inventions and discoveries which the long peace succeeding Waterloo
was instrumental in producing, he would probably be most struck by the
revolution accomplished in the matter of travelling.
We have only to go back half a century to the time when a tour upon
the Continent of Europe was attended by great expense, inconvenience,
and even danger. It consumed much time, and no Englishman upon whom
business did not lay a necessity to travel, could undertake any very
extensive pilgrimage in these foreign countries unless possessed of
ample means united to ample leisure. It was thus generally reserved
for young noblemen and gentlemen of wealth, as the completion of their
education, to take, with a tutor, a courier, and a sufficient retinue,
the grand tour of Europe, the limit of which was usually, though not
always, Constantinople. I suppose this circumstance has given rise to
the Continental idea, which at least formerly prevailed, that every
Englishman was a _milord Anglais_, and to its practical consequence,
from which present travellers continue to suffer—the custom, gradually
disappearing, of charging English persons upon a different scale from
that applied to natives. No doubt many of those men of former days
scattered money profusely, and to a certain extent their successors
continue to do so, and are even exceeded by some of the American
travellers who, accustomed to pay in dollars where shillings with us
often suffice, contrive by their extravagance to spoil for others the
places they frequent.
Times are now changed since the days of our grandfathers. The
treacherous sailing vessel (the smack, which would take at one time
three days, and at another, because of adverse winds, three weeks to
go from Leith to London) is supplanted by the steady, expeditious, and
almost faultlessly punctual steamboat; while the lumbering diligence
or almost equally lumbering post–chaise has been driven out of the
field by, wherever it exists, the rapid railway train. Nevertheless,
as regards Continental railway rapidity, M. Arago’s expectations that
Parisians might ‘on the same day examine the preparations of our
squadron at Toulon; may breakfast on juicy rougets at Marseilles; may
bathe at mid–day their relaxed limbs in the mineral waters of Bagnères,
and return in the evening by way of Bordeaux to attend a ball or the
Opera House,’[1] have hardly as yet, at least, been realized; for
the railway train abroad bears about the same proportion in point of
speed to the English train as the clumsy diligence did of old to our
high–flyers and our ten–mile–an–hour stage–coaches.[2] Sometimes,
indeed, people in former times, who were able to do so, travelled on
the Continent in pursuit of health; and a very interesting account
of a tour of this description, made to a large extent over the same
ground as that which forms the subject of description in the following
pages, is contained in _The Diary of an Invalid_, by Henry Matthew,
A.M., made during a journey, performed in the years 1817–18–19, through
Italy, Switzerland, and France, from which an idea of the difference
of travelling in those days—sixty years ago—from what it is now, may
to some extent be gathered. Since the introduction of railways, which
now form a complete network all over the Continent of Europe, reaching
some of its wildest parts, and not hesitating even to penetrate some of
its loftiest mountains, and often by means of costly tunnels connecting
long stretches of country, travelling has been made so easy, and the
facilities for availing themselves of the means of locomotion have been
rendered so great, that there are comparatively few persons of the
better classes who have not at some time or other, and in a greater or
lesser measure, visited Continental lands. Our very mechanics have,
especially by means of excursion trains, sometimes in connection with
such great occasions as foreign Exhibitions, been enabled to see a
little of other lands; and even the seeing a little of another land is
calculated to remove prejudices, to enlarge the ideas, and to extend
the amount of one’s information.[3]
People in the present day travel sometimes for pleasure and to obtain
acquaintance with what cannot be seen at home, and sometimes for the
sake of health; and it is astonishing to what an extent this latter
reason has operated on the people of Great Britain, who rush from
the rigours of their northern climate—its clouds, its fogs, and its
rains—to enjoy the sunshine of warmer places, avoiding and exchanging
wet, foggy, and chilly winter quarters at home for pleasant sunny
places abroad. So much is this the case, that whole colonies of
English people, many of them owning houses, built or bought for their
residence, are found scattered over the Continent, particularly on
the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. They go to winter there, and the
places they frequent become remarkably English in their habits and
in their language—the force of the English character, and still more
of the English money, bearing down and upon the native population.
Indeed, it may rather be said that towns have been built by or for the
occupation of the English—as, for example, Cannes, which, if it do not
altogether owe its existence, is acknowledged by the natives to owe its
new creation, its growth and extent, to Lord Brougham.
* * * * *
We had on various previous occasions taken a summer’s run abroad. The
protracted visit we paid to the Continent which forms the subject of
this volume was dictated by considerations of health; but we combined
with it, and advantageously, even for that end, some tours of pleasure.
The countries visited by us on this occasion were France, Italy, and
Switzerland; and it is with special reference to them that the remarks
offered in this and the succeeding introductory chapters apply. I
propose in this chapter to deal shortly with some of the bugbears
which frighten many from crossing the Channel, to state some of the
peculiarities of foreign travel, and to note a few other matters with
which those new to the subject may find it useful to be acquainted
previous to setting out.
* * * * *
The first great stumbling–block in the way of going abroad is to many,
especially elderly persons, the want of knowledge of the language of
the country to which they wish to direct their steps, or the want of
power to converse in it freely.
There can be no doubt that it is of great consequence to have an
acquaintance with the language of the country in which one desires to
travel or reside for a time. People are saved much inconvenience and
often money when they can talk it with fluency, and can comprehend
what the natives say—usually the more difficult operation. At the
same time, in all frequented parts of France, Italy, and Switzerland,
either English or French will carry any one through. French is spoken
by nearly every educated person who travels on the Continent, with
perhaps the exception of the Germans, who, though they may know a
little French, seem to give a preference to the acquisition of the
English language, in which frequently they converse with great purity
and ease. At the hotels, the landlord, or one of the waiters, sometimes
all of them, can speak English more or less perfectly. Nay, what is
very surprising is, that the man sometimes called _portier_, who sits
in a little chamber at the door, has often a better acquaintance with
English than even landlord or waiter. This porter or, as he is more
correctly designated, _concierge_, is attached to all large hotels, and
his ostensible duty is not that of carrying luggage (for which business
there are men of a different stamp under him), but consists in keeping
the keys of the rooms, attending to letters, and answering inquiries.
In reality he is a man of superior intelligence, and acts often as the
interpreter of the house; for he is generally acquainted with many
languages, and usually with at least French, English, and German,
and has to reply to questions in these different languages almost
in the same breath. In frontier places, his acquaintance is extended
to the language of the neighbouring country—it may be, for instance,
Italian or Spanish. However, among employees and others with whom the
traveller has to do, the knowledge of many languages is not confined
to the _gens portier_. At Mentone I was informed that a hairdresser
there could speak five languages; and how else could he hope, from a
hairdresser’s point of view, to please his patients? At Rome, having
gone to the wrong shop, I had to experience the difficulties of
undergoing an operation by a gentleman of the fraternity who could
speak nothing but Italian; and we should never have succeeded in coming
to a mutual understanding, but for the kindly intervention of a priest
who was being shaved and could speak French, and after all it did not
wholly save me from that ‘croppiness’ in which the foreign _coiffeur_
delights. This linguistic faculty does not stop at hairdressers,
who may be considered to be men of an advanced race. At Mentone we
used to employ a donkey girl, who also could speak a little in five
languages. Philippina was a bright, intelligent girl, much liked by her
employers, and no doubt she found her advantage in knowing something
of their different tongues. In Switzerland, for the most part, the
German language prevails, and it is occasionally uncommonly hard, if
one is not acquainted with German or has but a smattering of it, to
get on, say, with a coachman who knows nothing else. At Ragatz, where
they speak German, I put a question to a stallkeeper selling goods on
the street, and was promptly answered by a young girl of the adjoining
stall in English. I asked her how she came to know English. She learnt
it at school. Were they all taught English, I asked. ‘Oh, no; those
who desired to be taught had to pay for it.’ The shopkeepers abroad,
however, have in many cases acquaintance with English sufficient to
enable them to effect sale of their wares. They quickly discover us to
be English, and when they speak our language they like to air it, and
answer questions put in their, the shopkeepers’ language (made, we
imagine, with all correctness of expression and of accent), in our own.
In Rome we found that all the cab–drivers could speak French, which, of
course, facilitates going about to those who cannot speak much Italian.
In Italy generally, unless it might be in speaking to women–servants,
and not even always in their case, we did not find much necessity for
using Italian. Either French or English was in most places understood.
Sometimes we have even had English landladies, as at the Grand Hotel
in Sienna, and at the Tramontano at Sorrento; but this is a species of
good fortune, telling on the English traveller’s comfort in many ways,
which is seldom to be enjoyed. It only suggests that other English
women might find Italy a good field for similar enterprise.
* * * * *
In former days the passport system was a difficulty which afflicted
the minds of timorous travellers. Apart from the surveillance implied,
there was the trouble and expense of procuring it, and having
the proper _visas_ affixed by the representatives of Continental
Governments; the anxiety lest in passing some corner of a foreign
territory—some debateable land—it might not be _en règle_; the
detentions it occasioned, and the perturbation of spirit which arose,
should it by any accident have been mislaid or lost, there being no
absolute certainty that if imprisoned in a cold, damp, dreary dungeon
for want of the necessary safe–conduct, our Government after a suitable
period of fruitless negotiation would go to war with the foreign power
for the defaulter’s release. On one occasion (in 1855), on entering
Geneva by diligence, I missed my passport (which on arrival I found
lying at my feet), and did not know what would happen, but the man
in collecting passports from the passengers fortunately overlooked
me. This was a species of the rarest good luck, upon which of course
it was utterly impossible to reckon; and the passport system was one
which was felt by people living in a land in which every one is free,
without inquiry of any kind, to travel where and when he pleases,
to be an intolerable annoyance. It is still maintained; but with a
view, I presume, not to discourage English travelling (a source of
immense profit to the natives), a British subject has only on passing a
frontier to declare his nationality, and he is at once passed through,
except at some places where he is asked for his carte–de–visite; and if
he have not one at hand, even this is not insisted on if it be apparent
that he is what he represents himself to be, _un Anglais_, or, what
is the same thing to them, an American. Yet a passport is sometimes
useful; it now costs little, and should always be taken. It is easily
got under the directions contained in Bradshaw’s _Continental Guide_,
and the _visas_ of the foreign consuls seem now to be unnecessary, at
least for the countries in which we were to travel. It is particularly
important in some towns, to facilitate the obtaining of registered
letters. Even ordinary letters occasionally, as I have found (1872) at
Brussels on a former trip (having unfortunately lost my passport at
Strasburg), will scarcely be delivered at the Poste Restante without
production of the passport or other presumable evidence of identity;
and it is said in guide–books, although we have never experienced the
benefit of the information, that it operates as an admission to certain
places of public resort.
Although to the _mens conscia recti_ it may matter little, it does not
follow that, with all this relaxation of former rigour, people are
altogether free from surveillance. The spy may not crop up here and
there as, according to Doyle, he did, to afflict Messrs. Brown, Jones,
and Robinson, yet travellers do meet with evidences of the existence
of a secret and prying police. At Aix–les–Bains, which, however, may
be regarded as a frontier town, we found the register of visitors kept
in a book furnished by the police, and containing instructions for the
entry of all names and particulars; and almost everywhere, immediately
upon arrival at a hotel, a waiter comes to take down the name,
address, profession, etc., which, apart from police regulations, is
only proper.
* * * * *
Besides a passport, there are other things to be attended to in order
that the way may be made smooth.
* * * * *
People do not always, when they resolve to travel, sit upon their
boxes—I mean, of course, metaphorically; yet in travelling abroad, at
least for a period of any duration, some thought must be bestowed upon
the _impedimenta_, and it is very proper to take such boxes as will
stand the immense fatigue to which all luggage is exposed, and to which
the foreign system of registration greatly adds. Very little regard
is paid by porters to the conservation of the luggage. It is tossed
and dragged along over iron–bound tables; and huge heavy iron–bound
and iron–cornered American chests, with their piercing little iron
castors, are often thrown or deposited remorselessly on the top of
smaller and weaker packages. Very small articles, indeed, should
never be put in the vans. It is better, and in the long run cheaper,
to have fewer packages and of a larger size. At the same time, they
are very inconvenient if unwieldily large, as too often one sees them
to be, requiring two men for their carriage, and needing to be left
outside the bedroom—an inconvenience both to the traveller herself and
her fellow–travellers; for it is the ladies who are in this respect
the great transgressors. Some ladies seem to travel with their whole
wardrobe, or at all events with a useless number of changes of raiment.
On one occasion we met a gentleman and lady, who had with them nine
huge boxes, nearly filling up the top of a large omnibus, besides
smaller articles, including their maid’s modest provision. This is
a grievous mistake. Ladies ought to travel with the least possible
quantity of changes. More than is fairly needful is inconvenient in
many ways. Apart from causing detentions to others, it is a source of
anxiety, and is most expensive in countries where the luggage is all
weighed, and every pound or extra pound must be paid for.
Among the little things to be taken, no good traveller will, of course,
omit a pocket corkscrew and a flask of cognac; nor will he neglect
soap. If he have not made it a rule in all travelling to use his own
soap, he is charged at foreign hotels 1 franc for _savon_. I have heard
a man growling over the ‘imposition,’ but it served him right, while
the article was just sold to him like anything else, with the usual 200
or 300 per cent. hotel profit added.
We considered it advisable, especially in view of travelling in Italy,
where the water is said to be often impure, and consequently unsafe to
drink, to take with us a small filter; but although we used our filter
occasionally, I cannot say we were frequently conscious of drinking
bad water. It is, however, a proper precaution, as water may be bad
without betraying its quality by the taste. An Ashantee filter with
a quart tin bottle, to be had from Atkins and Co., 62 Fleet Street,
London, occupies little space, and costs 8s. Were Messrs. Atkins to
devise a portable little filter for use at the table by insertion in a
tumbler, so as to purify the drinking water without the fuss of a large
filter, which it is inconvenient to carry, and which one cannot bring
to the public room, it would be of much use. It must be borne in mind,
however, that filters do not destroy organic matter suspended in the
water, and for this purpose permanganite of potash may be employed. A
drop or two of a solution of this substance, which may be purchased in
dry grains at any chemist’s (easily dissolved when wanted), effects
destruction of organic matter, but gives so unpleasant a bitterness to
the flavour of the water that we scarcely ever used it.
* * * * *
There are, however, things more important to provide, and among them
are good guide–books. The rapid growth and extraordinary ramifications
of the railway system have created a new branch of literature in
the railway time–tables. It is curious to take up an early copy of
Bradshaw, consisting only of a few pages, small pocket size, neatly got
up, and to contrast it with English Bradshaw of the present time. If
such a book be needful in Great Britain, people are even more helpless
without it abroad. Bradshaw’s _Continental Guide_, special edition,
will always be found to be most useful, both as a preparatory and as
an accompanying handbook. It contains a great deal of information,
which, however, ought to be taken in a general way, or as the lawyers
say, _cum nota_. Perfect reliance cannot always be placed upon the
accuracy of its railway and other time–tables and its tariffs. On
arriving in a country, it is especially necessary to secure, in
addition, one of its latest official railway guides. In France there
is published once a week, on the Sundays, _L’Indicateur des Chemins de
fer et de la Navigation service officielle_. This costs 60 centimes
(6d.), and is a long folio of inconvenient size. As nearly all French
travellers purchase a copy when they start on a journey, it doubtless
obtains a large sale. The _Livret Chaix Spécial pour France_ (there is
another edition for Europe generally) is an official guide of a more
convenient size. It is published once a month, book shape duodecimo,
costs 1 franc, and has no advertisements, which are scattered through
the _Indicateur_ in a tormenting way, though sometimes useful when
desired information is thereby discovered, which it might much more
readily be if, as in Bradshaw, all the advertisements were thrown
systematically to the end of the book. It is, however, troublesome
to follow these French guides when divergence from the main lines is
desired to be made. The lines are cut up into fragments without the
references contained in Bradshaw to other pages where the connecting
railways occur, and the neat little well–engraved maps in the _Livret
Chaix_ do not bear, as in Bradshaw’s map, the page references where the
tables of the railways are to be found. Bradshaw is puzzling enough,
but sometimes it is felt that the _Livret Chaix_ is one of those
mysteriously–arranged productions ‘which no fella can understand.’
In Italy there is published once a month, costing 1 franc or lira,
_L’Indicatore Ufficiale_. This is peculiarly arranged, and requires
study; but the Italian lines are so few, compared with those of France,
that there is no insuperable difficulty in discovering the time–bills
of particular railways. The Italian _Indicatore_ contains various
preliminary directions which it is well to read. They are curious, and
embrace, _inter alia_, regulations relative to the transport of cats
and monkeys.
The Italians have also a long _Indicatore_ similar to the French weekly
one; and in both countries smaller and cheaper district guides, with
more limited information, are to be had.
In Switzerland, a _Guide des Voyageurs en Suisse_ is published,
apparently twice a year—at least those procured in the Swiss travelling
season are marked ‘Saison d’été,’ 1877 or 1878, as the case may be.
It is never safe to trust to a guide of a past month, although changes
are generally only made in the beginning of the winter season, or about
15th or 16th October, and in the beginning of the summer or spring
season. By not observing a change of this kind which had just been
made, we were detained at Toulon for three or four hours waiting for
the next train to Hyères.
Although it is not desirable to burden oneself with many books in
travelling, Bædeker’s Guide–Books, which on the whole are very accurate
and useful, ought not to be dispensed with. Italy is embraced in
three little volumes—Northern, Central, and Southern; and Bædeker has
separate Guides to Switzerland, France, and other countries; so that if
one has to travel much, quite a little library requires to be taken.
Bædeker’s Northern Italy, however, embraces the Riviera di Ponente, in
which Cannes and Mentone are, and the journey thither from Paris, and
towns on the way, such as Lyons, Avignon, Nismes, and Marseilles, while
southward it extends as far as Florence. Murray’s Guide–Books are very
useful, and are much more full and detailed, but consequently are more
bulky, and are therefore more suitable for protracted visits to a town
such as Venice. Neither Bædeker nor Murray, however, are to be wholly
relied upon, especially for the latest information. For example, we
found in Italy that while it is said in Bædeker there are no fees to
pay, in the different Academie delle Belle Arti there is now charged
1 franc per person for admission. I would add, also, that Bædeker’s
estimates of hotel charges can by no means be relied on as exact,
although they may at one time have been so, or they may in some cases
be those with which Germans are charged, Bædeker being a publication
originating in Germany.
These books all require from time to time careful revision; and
considering the importance to the traveller of having the latest
information, and the large sale they command, they ought to be revised
at short intervals.
There are certain very useful guide–books published in France, of two
sorts—the _Guides Diamant_, which are little pocket volumes in small
type; and the _Guides Grand Format_, which are of a larger size.
Each class (published only in French) contains a series of volumes
applicable to the different parts of France, as well as volumes devoted
to other countries. The divisional volumes for France are exceedingly
useful, as containing detailed information respecting the districts to
which they apply.
I may also mention that Mr. Cook, the tourist, publishes a series of
handbooks for the countries to which his tours apply; and that recently
Black has also added to his list of guide–books, guides to the south of
France.
To those visiting Rome, _Hare’s Walks in Rome_ (2 vols.) will be found
extremely serviceable. Unfortunately we did not take it with us, as
adding to the quantity of books with which we had to travel. It is
a little heavy to carry about in the hand, but it directs attention
to what is best worth seeing, and may be consulted at one’s lodgings
before and after visiting the attractions of Rome.
In the old coaching days, when the mail or the diligence drove through
a town, and generally stopped at one of the principal inns, there
was not much deliberation needed or even much choice granted as to
where the passenger should sleep. But it is one of the inconveniences
attendant upon the railway system,—to a certain extent obviated by the
erection of station hotels,—that he has not an opportunity from ocular
inspection beforehand, on arriving at a strange town, of forming an
idea as to where he should go. And it is an observation on Bradshaw
(more or less applicable to other guide–books), that it does not do
to rely implicitly on its recommendations of hotels,—a circumstance
which probably arises from the notice of given hotels having been
written years previously, and means not having been used to obtain a
complete revision from year to year. More reliance in this respect is
to be placed on Bædeker’s Guide–Books. Hotels marked by Bædeker with
an * will almost always be found of a good character. In the absence
of other means of intelligence, we have sometimes been driven, like
many others, to ask information from chance fellow–travellers, at other
times to get it at the hotel from which we started in the morning—not
infrequently the less trustworthy method of the two. But as it is most
desirable to have reliable information on this subject, it is, where
practicable, by far the best plan, before setting out upon a tour, to
settle as nearly as possible the route to be taken, and to obtain a
note from friends who have travelled along it of the hotels they would
recommend. In possession of this knowledge beforehand, all anxiety
is removed, and one is enabled to write previously, requesting the
landlord to retain rooms. Letters and telegrams with such requests are
always carefully attended to, the hotelkeeper no doubt considering
that application to him is made from choice and not from chance.
* * * * *
The great increase of travelling produced by the railways, has led
bankers to contrive convenient methods in which people may take the
requisite supply of money with them; and of all the methods which have
been devised, the best and safest is that afforded by the system of
circular notes. These notes are granted by certain banks in London and
Edinburgh, and are drafts upon London for £20 each, or for the usually
more convenient amount of £10 each, according to the tourist’s desire.
They can be cashed at any town on the Continent, hotelkeepers also
accepting them in payment of their bills, but without benefit of any
exchange which would be allowed by the banks. Along with the notes, the
banker delivers what is called a ‘Letter of Indication,’ which contains
a list of all the banks with which he corresponds, embracing almost
every place which may be visited in Europe. This letter, for security’s
sake, it is advisable to keep in a different pocket or box from the
circular notes, which require his signature and endorsement. The
banker’s correspondents ought not to cash the notes without production
of this letter of indication; but sometimes they are negligent or lax
in this respect, particularly if the presenter appear to be respectable
or a _bona fide_ traveller. At some places, however, such as at Paris,
the bankers are more cautious, and not only invariably ask for the
letter, but they put sundry questions and take the hotel address—the
object being, quite properly, in a quiet way to make sure that the
notes are presented by the right person. A friend had his notes stolen
from him at a railway station in Paris on arrival from England, having
unfortunately put them with other things in a small hand–bag, instead
of carrying them in a secure pocket about his person. His letter of
indication, however, was not with the notes, and so far, though not
altogether, was he safe. The thief took them at once to a bank in
Paris, and, I suppose, not having the letter of indication, and perhaps
not being able to give a satisfactory account of himself, they were
forwarded to London, and within fifteen hours after being stolen were
presented to the banker on whom they were drawn, and they were refused
because the signature attached by the thief did not correspond with the
usual signature of my friend.
These circular notes are exchanged for the money of the country in
which they are presented for payment; but French gold is always useful,
and fetches full value abroad. In exchanging, one generally gets the
benefit of the exchange, subject to a fractional deduction. The usual
exchange in France for a sovereign is 25 francs 10 centimes;[4] but
this is seldom got, and in some places, such as Biarritz and Mentone,
the bankers only give the 25 francs nett, and in other places slightly
more or slightly less according to the state of the exchange. At a
bank in Cannes a friend exchanged Bank of England notes simultaneously
with my exchanging a circular note for £10. While I obtained 7½d. (75
centimes) of premium, he got nothing, because the banker said there was
always much more trouble about Bank of England notes, which required
registration. Eighteen months later, however, I found in Paris, oddly
enough, that Bank of England notes were at a premium, while circular
notes were at a discount. At Cannes, in 1877, I had occasion to cash a
bank draft on London received from one of the colonies, and found that
nominally the allowance was greater than upon circular notes; but as
the banker charged a commission, it practically reduced the exchange
to about the same amount. Another notable circumstance was, that while
at Mentone the bankers would give nothing beyond the 25 francs, at the
neighbouring town of Nice the bankers always gave exchange varying
from 75 centimes to 1 franc per £10. At Pau I found that while the
correspondent of the bank only gave ½ franc per £10, another banker
gave 1 franc, and upon an exchange of £50 even a shade more. Again, at
Montreux, in Switzerland, I obtained 1 franc 25 centimes per £10, and
within little more than a week afterwards at Biarritz, in accordance
with invariable practice, nothing beyond the 25 francs per £. The
same difference occurred in two other places. Within a similar short
space, I changed in Paris and got 25 francs per £. Within a day or two
afterwards, I had to change other notes at Interlachen, and received 25
francs 10 centimes. The only explanation I ever got for these anomalies
was that given at Biarritz, the banker there saying, that at Montreux
they were near the Italian border (in fact, a long way off from it),
and could make more money out of the notes. But this was obviously an
unsatisfactory reason, and certainly could not explain the position of
matters at Mentone, which is within two miles of the Italian frontier.
In Italy the exchange of gold or notes on London into Italian
paper is a matter of considerable importance to the holder, for
the exchange allowed, though it fluctuates, is always high.[5] The
lowest we received anywhere was 27·03 at Rome, 23d March 1877, and at
San Remo 1878. The highest was at Venice, in May 1877, 28·25. This
last was during the Eastern War, which had been declared in April,
and considerably raised the value of gold in Italy. I presume the
uncertainty as to whether Italy would be involved in the war helped
to depress the value of the paper. It is difficult for one who has
not been engaged in commerce or in banking to understand why these
fluctuations occur, or to be acquainted with the causes which influence
them. The current value is said to be dependent upon the position of
the commercial relations between Great Britain and the Continent; but
there are obviously other circumstances, such as national credit,
political disturbances, war, and the abundance or scarcity of money,
which affect or bias the barometer. But whatever may be the cause, the
traveller obtains the benefit of the effect when the exchange is high,
as his money goes so much further. The Italian paper money is, unless
otherwise specially bargained for, taken everywhere in Italy—in hotels,
in shops, and even at railways. It is only necessary to be particular
in seeing that paper of the right sort is given. It is always safe to
receive paper of the National Bank of Italy. This circulates everywhere
throughout Italy, but notes of district or provincial banks are not
accepted out of the province; and there are certain notes which have
been called in (with which one soon becomes familiar), which, though
taken in shops, are refused at railway stations and other public
places, sometimes provokingly.
One curious circumstance about the Continental banks is, that they seem
to possess marvellously limited stores of money, whether of notes or of
gold and silver. People have just to take what the bankers can give.
I have more than once been obliged in France to take a note for 1000
francs, or £40, which is practically useless, unless where residence in
a place is to be of sufficient duration to enable the holder to tender
the note in payment of his hotel bill. I have often had the greatest
difficulty in getting small change even for half a napoleon. For a
napoleon (20 francs) one is fortunate to get, as a favour from a bank,
four large 5 franc pieces, the banker saying that he has no smaller
change, which perhaps only means he cannot spare his lesser money.
This state of matters, I believe, arises from the scarcity of silver
money in France, produced by the people hoarding up their savings,
which are thus withdrawn from circulation. In Italy (where apparently
the same hoarding must take place, though probably not so extensively)
I have for the most part had to take, except to a very limited extent,
the notes proffered by the banks; and one very useful kind of note,
that for half a franc, is very difficult to procure. Even 1 franc notes
are scarce; the bankers will give you a pocketful of copper instead.
These ½ franc and 1 franc notes are essentially necessary for fees in
going about such places as Rome; but copper is freely taken as payment
of fees, carriage drives, etc. Fancy tendering a London cabman his fare
in copper!
At first one feels a little repugnance to the use of these small
Italian notes, which are of all values; but after getting habituated to
them, a preference arises for their use over metal money, which is so
much heavier. A special purse with divisions for the different values
should be procured.
* * * * *
And now, having accomplished the preparations for the journey, the
next question is as to the route. It will always be found that there
are greater facilities in travelling to and from a capital city, such
as London, Paris, or Edinburgh; and in going abroad towards France,
the voyager has generally to select one of the routes from London to
Paris. The four great leading steamboat passages across the Straits
are—Southampton to Havre, advertised to take in crossing six and a
half hours; but on the only occasion on which I have gone by that
route, which was in 1854, the voyage occupied in a calm night eleven
hours, though possibly more powerful boats are now laid on. Newhaven
to Dieppe, five and a half to six hours in good weather: I have
been nine hours in a storm. Folkestone to Boulogne, ordinarily two
hours, although one fast boat (by which our last crossing was made)
accomplishes the passage in an hour and a half. Dover to Calais,
one hour forty minutes; but in a storm I have known it to have taken
four hours. As an inducement to travel by the longer crossings, the
fares are proportionately lower. Fares by night service trains are
considerably less than those by day trains. The routes by Newhaven
and Folkestone are tidal, and the hours of sailing vary according
to the state of the tide, which is troublesome, and infers to most
people, when the boats sail at an early hour, sleeping at the port
of departure, which we repeatedly have had to do.[6] The passage by
Folkestone and Boulogne is by many preferred to that from Dover to
Calais, because there is less groundswell. Getting into the pier
at Boulogne is sometimes, owing to the state of the tide, tedious;
but from a statement in the newspapers, it would appear that the
authorities are contemplating the improvement of the harbour by an
outlay of £680,000. In proceeding to Paris from Calais or Boulogne, one
may stop at Amiens and see the town and fine old cathedral; but the
routes from Havre, and from Dieppe to Paris through Normandy, are far
more interesting by the way, and pass picturesque Rouen, which is well
worthy of a visit, the stoppage of at least a night to explore it amply
repaying the visitor.
* * * * *
All the world and the railway companies are largely indebted to the
enterprise of Mr. Cook, who, from small beginnings, commencing in
1851, has gradually enlarged his schemes for the public benefit, till
the ramifications of his system extend over all Europe and even into
the other continents. Mr. Gaze followed, apparently a good many years
later, and his arrangements seem to be on an equally extensive scale.
Both houses have agencies in the leading towns of Great Britain, as
well as in several of the principal European cities. Their success
is evidence of their utility, and there can be no doubt that the
facilities afforded by them have greatly increased the number of
Continental travellers. Their Lists furnish the routes and the cost of
travel; their tickets are extremely useful, and possess the advantage
of being printed in English as well as in the language of the country
to which they apply; while to those who are afraid of travelling in
countries where they cannot speak the language, their conducted tours
are no doubt valuable.
Tickets can be got from Cook’s offices to Paris _via_ Dover and
Newhaven; Gaze supplies tickets _via_ Folkestone and Southampton;
and there is a little advantage in taking these tickets, in respect
of saving time and trouble at the bustling London railway stations.
The tickets are made up in little books, and a leaf applicable to
the portion traversed is withdrawn by the ticket collector upon
accomplishment of that stage of the journey. But if the traveller be
going beyond Paris, to some place to which these offices book, he
receives a separate packet of tickets, which is exceedingly useful to
him, as, besides saving the trouble of purchasing at the Paris railway
station, he is enabled on starting from Paris to register his heavy
luggage to any part of his destination for which there is a coupon, and
that even at every such place. For example, going from Paris to Nice,
the luggage may be registered to Nice; and taking sufficient in the
carriage for the journey, in a _sac–de–nuit_, one may stop or break his
journey at Dijon, Lyons, Avignon, Marseilles, Cannes, and some other
towns. He can be a month on the road, and find upon arrival at Nice his
luggage safe in the luggage room, with a trifle per night to pay for
the accommodation. The trouble of procuring tickets at each station
is also saved, although at some places they require the tickets to be
stamped afresh at the ticket window; but in Italy generally a separate
window for this purpose is provided, so that the trouble of obtaining
the _visa_ is there reduced to a minimum.
The tickets issued by the two London houses for France seem to be
charged at or about the same rates as at the French railway stations.
But in Italy, or for Italy, their tickets must be paid for in English
money; so that it does not seem in a pecuniary point of view to be
one’s interest to procure them, because the benefit of the exchange,
amounting to about one–twelfth of the cost, is thus lost. No doubt it
is an advantage to those who cannot speak a few words of the Italian
language so as to be understood, or who cannot pick up what is said
at the railway booking window, to take the English tickets, and they
can afford to pay for their ignorance. But if the fee–expecting
_commissionaire_ of the hotel do not attend to the matter, which he
often of his own accord does, or will do if asked, extremely little
is necessary to be said, even French, or a mere acquaintance with the
numerals, being generally sufficient. Personally I never experienced
any difficulty whatever in taking out the tickets at the foreign
railway stations, and indeed the only difficulty I remember to have
had was, because I had Cook’s tickets. Conceiving there might, on a
first visit, be trouble, I had at Nice taken tickets from Genoa to
Rome, bearing a right to make three intermediate stoppages. Having,
in perfect accordance with the conditions, stopped at Spezzia, Pisa,
and Sienna, I could hardly, on leaving Sienna, get the tickets marked
for Rome. They were refused at the ticket window, and doubted by the
_chef–de–gare_; and it was only upon my emphatic remonstrance, and his
appealing to somebody else on the platform, that I succeeded in getting
them stamped. On arriving in Rome, I told Mr. Cook’s agent there what
had happened, and he said that if I had been required to have purchased
tickets from Sienna to Rome, he would have compelled the railway
company to have refunded the money, and made a complaint about it. It
was no doubt just one of those stupid things that will happen under the
best arrangements, well to be mentioned, that it may not be repeated;
and apart from the question of time (for the English tickets are
limited in time allowed for a journey extending over several towns),
there is no reason why they should not be preferred, provided always
that they could be procured with Italian paper money. Probably from the
fluctuating state of the exchange, it is difficult for Messrs. Cook and
Gaze to arrange; but if they could, it would obviate all objection.
* * * * *
To those intending to travel in Italy, great advantages are held
out by the railway companies in the shape of circular tour tickets
(_viaggi circulari_). The _Indicatore della Strada Ferrata_ contains a
list,[7] with plans of a large number of such tours, the tickets for
which are issued, enduring, according to the length of tour, from ten
to sixty days (which cannot be extended), at the large reduction of
45 per cent. upon the price which would otherwise be exigible. One of
these tours is, for example, a complete round of Italy—from Turin by
the west coast, embracing Florence and Rome to Naples, and thence by
the east coast by Ancona, Bologna, Venice, Milan, and back to Turin,
at a cost for first class of £7, 17s., and second and third classes
correspondingly low. This tour, for which sixty days are allowed,
enables the traveller to stop at any important town on the lines; and
all that is necessary is, at starting from each place, to get the
next station at which he means to stop scored through at the railway
window. To those whose time is limited, these circular tickets are
valuable, and they are procurable with Italian paper, so that the
benefit of exchange is got. Cook and Gaze issue tickets for the same
circular tours, and probably at the same price, although I suppose
they are generally in connection with tickets from London; but they
have, I understand, to be paid for in English money. They possess
the advantage, I believe, by no means to be undervalued, of having
all directions printed in English as well as Italian. The railway
companies issue their tickets at every important town on the line of
route to be travelled.
In France, likewise, there are for some parts circular tours, such as
from Paris to Bordeaux, Biarritz, the Pyrenees and back. Information on
the subject may be got in the _Indicateur_, or in the _Guides Diamant_
among the advertisements.
I would just add in connection with this subject, that it is said by
Bradshaw that return tickets are ‘almost universal abroad, and issued
upon terms far more liberal than any granted by our English lines.’
Although I have on various occasions taken day return tickets for short
trips, I have never yet found them to be any cheaper than the double
fare.
* * * * *
In the course of a journey, what are called supplementary billets can
be procured through the guard, so as to enable a neighbouring place to
be visited by a side line. Thus, in going from Lyons to Marseilles, we
obtained supplementary tickets from Tarascon to Nismes by asking for
them when stopping at Valence, about the second station before reaching
Tarascon. This, especially looking to the peculiarities of foreign
lines, is a great convenience.
The Italian _Indicatore_ states that travellers may exchange at any
place to a higher class by paying difference of fare between the place
at which the transfer is effected and the terminus.
* * * * *
After crossing the Channel, the first thing which is new to one who has
not previously ventured out of the British Islands, is the examination
of luggage by the _douaniers_ or custom–house officers. It is now
arranged that by registration of luggage to Paris, the examination may
take place there. This saves detention at the port of debarkation. In
general, an Englishman, if apparently a _bona fide_ pleasure traveller,
is very easily dealt with by these officers. If he have but a single
portmanteau, it is sometimes not so much as opened, or if opened,
there is but a nominal examination. He is asked if he have anything
to declare—’Any cigars?’ It is curious that in almost every country,
the sole special question usually asked is, ‘Have you any cigars?’
and the word of an Englishman that he has none is ordinarily taken.
If there be several boxes, the officer points to one of them, and
desires it to be opened, sometimes merely to be closed again. At other
times the man will provokingly put his hand down to the very depths,
and perhaps bring up something hard or a parcel, and fancy he has
made a discovery. But he is easily satisfied, and things are restored
in the best way possible for a tight fit. No examination of luggage
seems to be made on entering Switzerland from any frontier country,
indicating that the Swiss have no custom–house duties; but on leaving
Switzerland and entering France, there is a more minute examination
than occurs when coming from England; and although English people get
off comparatively easily, a question being sometimes asked as to where
they are going, those of other countries are most unmercifully dealt
with, every separate package, down even to handbags, being overhauled.
Once, many years ago, travelling by diligence from Geneva to Lyons,
I saw every article in a French lady’s boxes turned out and minutely
examined at three different places on the way. I presume they are
suspicious of such travellers secreting Geneva watches or jewellery. On
that occasion my own luggage was only examined once, but they made a
sort of examination of the person by passing their hands over my dress.
The lady, no doubt, was subjected to a more strict examination of her
person.
* * * * *
On landing in France, it is found that there is a difference of time
between Paris and London of ten minutes. All the French railways go
by Paris time; all Swiss railways, by Berne time, which is twenty
minutes in advance of Paris time; and all Italian railways, by Roman
time, which is forty–seven minutes in advance of Paris time. This is
all very right and proper, and makes it easy to know the times for
travelling by railway. But although the railways adopt the time of
their respective capitals, every different town has, according to its
longitude, its own, or what is held to be the correct time at the place
according to the sun. This proves most embarrassing, more especially
as the hotels regulate their hours by the clock of their own town
when that exists. If not, there is the utmost perplexity in finding
out what the correct time is. At Mentone no two clocks were alike. By
common consent they all differed. On going south to Avignon, the time
is nearly a quarter of an hour in advance of Paris time; at Mentone
it is twenty minutes. If, on the other hand, the journey be westward
of Paris, at Biarritz, the time will be found as much the other way;
so that one of the first inquiries to be made on reaching a hotel is,
‘What is the time of the town?’ and to note the difference between that
and railway time.
The complex and extraordinary mode of measuring time formerly in use in
Italy, by counting twenty–four hours for the varying time of vespers,
seems to be now wholly abandoned.
* * * * *
All who have travelled on the Continent are familiar with the railway
arrangements; but as they differ in some particulars from those to
which we are accustomed, and as this introductory chapter is mainly
intended for the benefit of those who have not previously crossed the
Channel, it may be useful to mention some of them.
* * * * *
Although in all leading respects foreigners have copied our railway
system, yet their diverging peculiarities are not always calculated
to reconcile an Englishman to Continental travel. He arrives at the
station, which he finds he must do in France a full half–hour before
the hour of starting; in Italy, in large towns, a full hour. And in
France he must always, in the first instance, procure his ticket at a
little wire–latticed window, falling into a _queue_ of people to take
his turn. Stooping to a small hole not six inches high on the table
level, he has to shout through in French to the distributor of billets
within, telling him what he wants, and from whom he receives in return
mention of the amount to be paid. It is always well to know beforehand
how much this is, which can be at least approximately calculated
from the time–tables; but the exact price of tickets may usually be
obtained from a board or table of fares near the ticket window, often
most inconveniently placed and arranged, and so dirty and soiled as
occasionally to be illegible. Without a previous knowledge of the
probable cost, it is exceedingly difficult for a stranger to make out
what the man says, owing to the narrowness of the aperture and the
indistinctness of French pronunciation. In many places, particularly in
Italy, an official is stationed (a most commendable practice) outside
the window, to prevent inconvenient crowding, to tell the fares, to see
that the correct billets are supplied, and to be a check on the ticket
distributor giving the right change. I have been told of cases where,
in Italy,—but it was some years ago,—there had been supposed attempts
to cheat on the part of the distributor; but, except on one occasion, I
never got wrong change. It happened at Bologna, where I received at the
ticket office 1 lira too little, and at the luggage office some pence
less than the correct change. In both cases it was at once rectified
on my pointing out the mistakes, and I set them down to slips. At
other times, on accidentally neglecting to take up small change at the
window, such as a sou, I have been called back to get it. But there is
an admirable check upon any attempt to cheat, or on mistakes, in the
circumstance that commonly Continental tickets have marked upon them
their cost—a system which might with great advantage be introduced into
Great Britain.
* * * * *
And now the Englishman obtains a new experience of how they manage
things abroad. His luggage was, on arrival at the station, deposited
on a long table under the care of the conductor of the omnibus which
brought him. This luggage, with the exception of such little things
as he means to take with him into the carriage, has, when his turn
arrives, to be carefully weighed. In France each traveller is allowed
30 kilogrammes, or about 65 lbs. weight. For every pound beyond this he
is required to pay according to distance. The men engaged in weighing
ask for the railway billets to show the destination, and then he goes
to the luggage–ticket window, where he duly receives back his billets
stamped as having been used, and gets a little scrap or morsel of thin
paper, which is the receipt for his luggage, and for which he has in
any case to pay 10 centimes (1d.) in addition to any charge for extra
weight. This receipt bears the number of _colis_ or packages and of
persons, the united weight of the party’s luggage, the sum payable, the
place of despatch and the place of destination, and a printed number;
which number is also affixed to each article so registered, and is the
means by which, on arriving at the journey’s end, it is identified.
What is the exact method by which the officials in charge manage to
secure that all the multiform boxes and bags arrive at their respective
proper destinations, I do not know. I presume that, in addition to an
invoice or list of some kind accompanying the train, the things for
each station are separately stowed away in the waggons; but whatever
may be the means adopted, they ensure the utmost regularity, although
I have heard of persons losing small articles, which, as a rule, ought
not to be so registered. On one occasion a rather curious circumstance
happened to my luggage. I went from Interlachen to Paris, and the
registration number on my portmanteau was 82. From Paris to London it
was registered anew, and the number happened to be 282; but the passage
across the Channel was very stormy, and I presume the Paris number had
been washed off on the voyage. On presenting my receipt at London, and
pointing out my portmanteau, it was found that it had not the number
282, but simply 82, and I had some difficulty in getting it; but as my
key opened the lock, and nobody else appeared to claim the article, I
got delivery.
In Italy, no allowance is made for luggage. Every pound which is
registered must be paid for, and consequently it is not in general
necessary previously to take out the railway billets. The expense is
not, however, great, unless one’s luggage be heavy. Our luggage, which
perhaps was less than many travel with, cost me, travelling nearly all
over Italy, for railway charges, less than 30s. per person; but railway
fares in Italy are cheaper than with us, so that the difference is thus
made up.
Although the system of registration is attended by much security,
and is one with which it might not be safe to dispense in travelling
abroad, I do not think that, in its integrity, it could be introduced
into busy England. We should never stand the minute weighing of our
luggage, and, above all, the enormous loss of time which it entails.
It has, besides, its disadvantages, because it results in travellers
carrying and placing beside them articles which ought properly to be
in the van. The luggage registered, too, suffers injury. Moreover,
at the journey’s end a great detention is always occasioned. All
have to wait till the vans are emptied, and the contents dragged
about and arranged upon long tables in a closed room. When the entire
collection is adjusted as far as possible according to the numbers
affixed, the doors of this room are opened, after having had to wait
wearily perhaps half an hour. It is, however, by no means necessary to
attend personally, except where the luggage must be passed through the
_douane_, and sometimes the hotel omnibus will take home the passengers
and come back for the luggage; but personal attendance enables a more
prompt recognition of it to be made, and ensures accuracy. In Italy it
is reckoned safer not to leave luggage at a station. The Italians have
not been credited with the greatest honesty, though probably this is
a thing of the past. However, they themselves manifest the sense of
insecurity by refusing to receive luggage for registration which is
not properly locked or fastened, and boxes arriving in such condition
are closed at the owner’s expense in his presence.
In travelling by steamboat, also, a charge is made for luggage
according to weight. Thus, upon a little sail of about 10 miles on Lake
Como, I had to pay 2½ francs for luggage. In diligences in Switzerland,
20 lbs. weight only is allowed. All weight beyond this is charged for—a
fairly reasonable regulation.
* * * * *
Perhaps the most peculiar and striking of all the Continental
travelling arrangements is the system of waiting–rooms. It introduces
to English people a difference of method of a somewhat irritating
description. The _salle–d’attente_ is a species of sheep pen into which
the traveller is driven after he has obtained his railway billets and
had his luggage registered, and where he must remain helplessly shut up
till the train by which he is to travel is about to leave. Generally
a separate large room is provided for each of the three classes of
travellers, and the rule is that nobody is allowed to enter without
exhibition of the railway ticket appropriate to that particular class;
and as this cannot be done till the luggage be registered and paid
for, which seldom takes less than a quarter of an hour, if ladies be
of the party, they must wait with all the patience possible, guarding
the little articles to be taken into the railway carriage, in the large
hall of the office, where ofttimes there is not a seat or a comfortable
or clean one to be had. Once or twice, in breach of the regulations, I
have got them passed into the waiting–room. In the _salle–d’attente_
itself, penetrated under burden of all these little _impedimenta_
(for it is rare good luck to get a porter to help), a crowd of people
all similarly laden is found, and there the passengers have to wait
sometimes for long periods till within four or five minutes of the
starting of the train, when a man opens the door of the prison–house
or menagerie and shouts out, ‘_Messieurs les voyageurs, pour_ (naming
the places) _en voiture!_’ It may happen that there are several such
shouts for other trains before your own is announced, and your sudden
preparations for departure are stopped by the discovery that your
turn has not yet come, and you are not allowed to leave the place of
confinement. When your turn does come, you gather up your things,
which no porter helps you to carry, and rush pell–mell out with the
crowd. There is no servant to tell you where to go, and your only
security not to do wrong is to follow the multitude. When you reach
the carriages, it is seldom they have any board or placard indicating
their destination. If there should by any chance be an official about,
he is not there for the purpose of directing people; and if you ask
him, he gives about as slender information in answer as possible. It is
folly, however, to stop to ask him in the first instance. The plan is,
trudging on with wraps and bags and all the little things, to bundle
into the first open carriage where there appears to be sufficient room,
and secure seats as best you can, and then get out and make inquiries
for certainty’s sake. If you do not do so, and a lady, to recover
breath, halts an instant with foot on step before ascending, others
will coolly mount before her and take possession, and there may be the
utmost possible difficulty in procuring seat–room elsewhere, foreigners
being just as selfishly guilty as English people of telling lies about
a carriage being full. At all events, those who have got in first have
probably secured all the available spaces for their goods and chattels,
as well as the best seats for themselves. To avoid the expense of
registration, or to escape detention on arrival, foreigners (by whom I
mean natives of the Continent) almost invariably, as already mentioned,
bring portmanteaus and other big articles into the carriages; and as
the spaces below the seats are perhaps purposely narrow and confined,
these things become very inconvenient, often occupying the places
presumably intended for light articles, or they are placed on the seats
or among the feet. If smoking disagrees, or you are averse to it,
and desire a non–smoking carriage, the hunt for this in the scramble
is an additional embarrassment; and frequently, after getting into
a carriage and having everything arranged, the non–smokers discover
that the compartment is a smoking one, and they have to tumble out
at the last moment and endeavour to discover empty places elsewhere.
The inconveniences attendant upon this method of arranging for the
departure of travellers are such as would make it intolerable in Great
Britain, where one walks leisurely to the train as he arrives and
selects his seat, with the aid, it may be, of a porter or a guard. Free
Britons will submit quietly till a next election to the imposition of
heavy burdens in support of an unnecessary war, but a petty grievance
like this would raise a storm which no board of directors could resist.
* * * * *
The Continental railways, however, have both porters and guards, who,
like policemen, never seem to be present when most wanted. On arrival
at a station from an hotel, there are always railway porters to carry
the luggage to the registration table, for which they expect to be
paid, and sometimes in expectation of a further fee they will carry the
_petits bagages_ to the door of the _salle–d’attente_—occasionally,
though rarely, into the _salle–d’attente_ itself; but where assistance
is more needed, viz. in leaving the _salle–d’attente_ in the rush
for the train, porters are nowhere, and on arrival of the trains at
their destination, it is by the merest chance (at least in France) one
can be got to carry the unregistered articles—the number of which is
aggravated by the circumstance that it seems to be part of the system
of registration, that if luggage be forwarded to a station in advance
of that at which stoppage is to be made for the night or longer, it
is not possible to register separately to the stopping station what
is required for immediate use. A similar difficulty happens if the
heavy luggage is to be left at the railway station, to be got upon
setting out upon the further journey next day—a circumstance constantly
happening, we ourselves having travelled thus for days together. All
must be taken or none. But at some of the larger town stations, there
would now seem to be a left luggage room similar to our own, where
luggage may be deposited on payment of usually two sous per package per
night.
The railway porters always expect a fee (20 centimes per box, at
most, will suffice in France) for moving the heavy luggage—even the
registration weighers sometimes look for a copper. In Italy, however,
the porters often state there is a tariff of charge, under which
generally 25 centimes each package is paid, though the amount depends
somewhat on the size of each. It is, however, a comfort to know in
Italy, if you can, what exactly there is to pay; but although appeal
has often been made to the tariff if it happened to be high, I never
was gladdened with a sight of this mysterious document. I should make
one exception, for the extortion was so great that I demanded to see
it, though, as I might have foreseen, it was worse than useless to do
so. It occurred at Geneva, where a porter exacted 3½ francs (3s.) from
me for transporting on a barrow our luggage from the steamboat to our
hotel close by, we being charged in the bill in addition 2½ francs for
conveying two of us to the hotel, or 5s. for moving baggage little more
than a hundred yards.
I recollect some years ago a system very equitable both for porters and
passengers was in use at Cologne; a charge, I think, of 2d. for each
package was made at the railway station for porterage, and the amount
dropped into a box, the contents of which fell to be divided afterwards
among all the porters.
One misses at the foreign railways the fee–expecting, bustling English
guard. There is such a person, but he is not the important functionary
he makes himself at home, where he is seen going about as if all the
carriages belonged to him. Abroad, the guard arrives not or retreats
until the train is about to start, and the first and perhaps the only
time he makes his appearance is probably after proceeding a long way on
the journey; and when the train is in full motion, nervous passengers
are suddenly alarmed by seeing a man creeping along the outside of the
carriage and popping his head in at the window, or opening the door to
see the billets, which are seldom examined before starting. He silently
gives the tickets a clip, and disappears, perhaps to reappear after
another 50 miles for another examination and another clip, the want of
inspection before starting removing a safeguard which exists in England
against proceeding in the wrong train. But if the guard render himself
invisible, he does not expect, as in England, to be fee’d for making
needless announcements, or proffering superfluous information, and so
the imposition is saved.
* * * * *
As a general rule, the Continental railway carriages are superior in
comfort to our own, although latterly improvement has been made in
this direction on some of the English lines. On most of the foreign
lines, the second–class carriages are, or were, equal to our first,
and practically almost the only difference between first and second
consists in the number of passengers which they take, the first
class taking eight in each compartment, and the second ten. In the
line between Cette and Bayonne, and possibly on other lines, the
second–class carriages are not so good, and are more like our own, and
do not possess that with which those on other lines are fitted up—a
netting overhead similar to what is placed in our first–class carriages
for the reception of small things; hooks are substituted. Sometimes one
gets into the older class of carriage, as we did once between Arles and
Marseilles, where the compartments are uncomfortably narrow.
In France, it seems quite the rule to crowd the carriages to the
utmost. I never learnt the reason, but have imagined that a Government
duty or tax is levied on every carriage used. If so, it is highly
desirable that this tax should be removed.
In all the French trains, and I think also in other countries, there
is in each class a division _pour dames seules_; and as occasionally
there is only one second–class carriage in the train, and the post
may, if a mail train, occupy one compartment of it, there is in such
a case only one compartment left for the general travellers by second
class—a circumstance which is productive of inconvenience to them. The
officials peremptorily keep the _dames seules_ portion for ladies only.
On one occasion I had unwittingly got into one with three ladies of my
party, and with our whole effects; but although all the ladies in the
carriage politely expressed their willingness that I should remain, the
guard compelled me to descend and find another compartment for myself.
On most lines in France, Switzerland, and Italy, there are compartments
which are marked as non–smoking; but although so marked, little regard
is paid to the distinction, particularly on the Italian lines. The
men seem to have very little notion that it is a most selfish act to
pollute the air breathed by their fellow–passengers for the sake of
indulging in one of their own—to many others, disagreeable—habits which
might be postponed until they get out; and so little is thought about
it, that it would require Sydney Smith’s ‘Surgical Operation’ to imbue
them with the idea that it is a discomfort to others, or that when
asked to stop smoking, it is their duty at once as gentlemen to comply.
On one occasion in Italy, after speaking to successive passengers, some
of whom complied, and some would not, I spoke to the guard; but he paid
no attention to the complaint (the carriage being non–smoking), and in
charity let me suppose he did not comprehend what I said. But, indeed,
the cigar seems hardly ever out of the mouth of the Italian, and one
wonders how the humbler classes can spare the money from their small
earnings to spend upon this expensive practice.
* * * * *
Foreigners are very fond in the hot weather of putting down all the
six windows of the compartment, thus creating draughts, from which I
have several times caught a cold. They have not the slightest notion
of closing a window in passing through a tunnel, and on some lines the
tunnels are frequent and long. But while they put down the glass, they
also draw down the blue blinds placed over each window, under pretence
of the shining of the sun, but quite as often for no conceivable reason
except that the glass is down, or that they don’t want to be bothered
looking out. It is of no manner of consequence although the scenery
through which one is passing be the finest or the grandest possible,
down goes the blue blind without even the politeness of asking the
other passengers whether they so desire or not. As often as I could, I
secured a place at the window, and showed that, although a native of a
colder clime, I could stand the sunshine for the sake of the view. On
one occasion, on a former tour, travelling by diligence from Geneva to
Chamounix, there were some Germans smoking continually, as usual, on
the seats before us. These men, though approaching the grandest scenery
in Europe, insisted angrily on a leather curtain being kept down, so
as to exclude all view, simply because the raising of it admitted a
little sunshine. But this habit is not confined to Germans; and the
conclusion to which I have come is that, to say nothing of the quality
of inherent politeness in true consideration for others, the generality
of foreigners have no high appreciation for scenery, or are desperately
afraid of their complexion, which, to say the truth, cannot rival that
of the Anglo–Saxon.
I should just add, that in Switzerland, on some of the lines, the
railway carriages are constructed somewhat on the American plan, by
which entrance is made from end to end of the carriage, and the guard
can thus pass through from one carriage to another. At Interlachen,
between the two lakes, there is an upper storey to enable people the
better to see the views. Carriages similarly constructed are for the
same reason run upon the little line between Bayonne and Biarritz.
* * * * *
The speed on Continental railways is, as compared with that on English
railways, very slow. There are what are called express trains, but
these express trains do not attain the celerity of our ordinary trains.
For example, the express which leaves Paris at 11 A.M. reaches Mentone
the following day at 3.50 P.M.—that is, 690 miles in twenty–nine hours,
or at the rate of 24 miles per hour; and for long journeys like this
in France, first–class tickets must be taken. Express trains are not,
however, always to be had, and one is doomed frequently to long and
tiresome journeys. To go from Nismes to Toulouse, our train took ten
hours, stopping at thirty different stations by the way between Cette
and Toulouse, with twenty minutes to dine at Narbonne, the previous
part of the journey between Nismes and Cette, a short distance, having
been express. The distance is only 298 kilometres, or about 186 miles
for the whole journey, the rate of speed between Cette and Toulouse
being thus only between 14 and 15 miles per hour. In like manner eight
hours were consumed in the journey between Pau and Toulouse, which is
about 130 miles, or rather more than 16 miles per hour. Not only is the
speed slow, but at any station at which the trains stop, there is a
detention for an apparently useless length of time. Occasionally long
stoppages occur also where the lines are single only. In one short
journey of 37 miles between St. Sebastian in Spain and Biarritz, two
hours were lost from this cause by waiting at two stations for trains
from the other end to pass. More powerful locomotives were promised
upon the line between Paris and Marseilles, by which it was expected
the journey of 536 miles might be accomplished in twelve hours; but
they do not yet appear to have been placed upon it.
If, however, the speed be less, the security is greater. We seldom hear
of accidents on the Continental lines.
There are peculiarities about the French trains which render it
necessary to study the _Indicateur_ very carefully, as some trains
take only first–class passengers, and others have no first class; and
although the first train going may be taken, it does not follow that
it will be the first to arrive at the destination. A still further
and annoying peculiarity is, that the railway company by first–class
express trains will not always book to every station on the line at
which they stop. Thus a friend left Mentone for Heidelberg. On arrival
at Marseilles, he found himself compelled to book to Paris to get on.
Thence he went to Strasbourg. Nor would it be possible to leave the
line at Lyons, because the luggage would be registered to Paris.
* * * * *
The arrangements of the railways in regard to stations correspond in
some degree with our own; but they have their specialties, into which
I need not enter. The system of _salles–d’attente_ and of registration
of luggage necessitate stations being built on a much larger scale than
our own. Sometimes tickets are collected before arriving at the _gare_,
but more frequently are inconveniently taken at the narrow _sortie_
or _uscita_ from the passengers encumbered with luggage. Outside
the station a host of porters and _commissionaires_ of hotels is
immediately encountered, and beyond this crowd, often largely swelled
by mere idle onlookers, and perhaps by an occasional pickpocket, a long
line of omnibuses and cabs. It is the practice in many, perhaps most
places, for every hotel to keep an omnibus which goes to the station
for every train. Probably there is some jealousy lest cab–drivers or
general omnibus conductors might beguile or be bribed to beguile the
visitors to certain hotels; but whether it be from this cause or from
ostentation, the consequence is that there is waiting for employment
a number of conveyances altogether out of proportion to the number of
passengers requiring conveyance. I have counted at Mentone, waiting
arrival of a train, twenty omnibuses, inclusive of a general one, with
their respective drivers and conductors, and nearly as many cabs;
while the number of passengers leaving the train would not exceed
twenty in all, of whom probably not three would require conveyance. The
maintenance of these omnibuses must be attended with heavy expense to
the hotelkeepers; and although it can by no means pay for the expense,
the charge against the visitor is heavy. The general omnibus, with a
few specially–adapted cabs, would suffice in most places for all the
traffic. It is melancholy to see the almost hourly procession of empty
‘buses, relieved only occasionally by one of them exhibiting in triumph
a solitary occupant, and perhaps bearing five or six large boxes on its
top. In Paris and Toulouse, and some other places, there are little
district or family omnibuses holding four or six persons, unconnected
with any hotel—a far better arrangement.
The charge for a seat in the omnibus is usually, in a town or general
omnibus, without luggage, either 30 or 50 centimes; with luggage, 1
franc. The hotel omnibuses never charge less than 1 franc per person;
and with luggage it is usually 1½ francs. If a party consist of four,
it has thus to pay 6 francs or 5s. for the drive to the hotel, which is
expensive; and it is much cheaper, if there be not heavy luggage, for
which the cabs are seldom adapted, to take a cab. This cannot easily
be done at leaving the hotel, as the guests are expected to employ the
hotel omnibus, which is charged as matter of course in the bill.
We experienced at Rome a curious species of imposition. Not finding a
carriage which would have taken our luggage, we entered the general
omnibus, for which the fare for three persons was, the conductor told
us, 3 francs, and drove to the house where we expected to obtain
quarters. It turned out to be full, and I left the omnibus, crossed the
street on foot and inquired at two hotels, at the second of which I
found accommodation, and the omnibus brought across the luggage. The
conductor demanded 10 francs for what he called the several courses,
and I was glad, with the assistance of the landlord of the hotel,
to arrange for 6 francs; but we were afterwards informed that this
conductor was notorious for such practices.
* * * * *
It is sometimes desired to send luggage or boxes by goods trains
_petite vitesse_. I had occasion to do so from Lyons to Mentone. A
declaration was, by aid of the landlord of our hotel, filled up,
containing, among other particulars, the general contents of the boxes
which he sent to the goods office, and they were duly forwarded to
their destination. The time taken in the transit varies and depends
on circumstances—it may be weeks. It is therefore never safe to send
off by goods train luggage which may be immediately wanted. The cost
of carriage is so much per 50 kilogrammes; all below the 50 is charged
the same as 50. For this weight between Lyons and Mentone, I paid 5½
francs. Between Paris and Mentone it would have been 7 to 8 francs;
between Marseilles and Mentone, 3 francs. These figures will give an
approximate idea of the cost. On leaving Mentone, the second season,
I sent a box (under 50 kilogrammes weight) to Glasgow, to care of
Messrs. J. and P. Cameron, railway agents, to go by _petite vitesse_
to Marseilles, and thence by sea to Glasgow, where Messrs. Cameron
passed it through the customs and despatched it to Edinburgh. The
total cost was 6s. 10d. A box I sent from Naples to the care of a
mercantile friend in Liverpool, by whom it was passed and forwarded to
Edinburgh, cost for carriage, Naples to Edinburgh, £1, 2s. 6d. This
amount embraced shipping agents’ charges, and was sent as freight. Had
I sent the box simply as a parcel, it would have cost 5s. 6d. less, but
the shipper would not for the lesser charge undertake responsibility
beyond 40s.; and looking to the thievish character of the Neapolitans,
I thought it safer to pay the additional charge. The difficulty one
feels about sending off things to pass a frontier, is the examination
by the _douaniers_; but I believe that some of the _expediteurs_, to
be found in all towns, undertake for a small fee to get this managed.
I presume they procure the passing through upon the footing of known
or credited respectability of the party sending. I sent to Glasgow and
Liverpool an exact list of the contents of the boxes, for exhibition,
if need were, to the authorities. Some of the bankers—as, for example,
Messrs. Macquay, Hooker, and Co., Florence—undertake to despatch goods
and works of art to any place in Europe.
II.
_CONTINENTAL HOTEL AND PENSION LIFE._
‘THE inn looked so much like a gentleman’s house that we could hardly
believe it was an inn,’ is the observation made by Miss Wordsworth in
her _Recollections of a Tour in Scotland in 1803_, upon arriving at one
which differed signally from others, where they could hardly obtain
even sleeping room, and that of the roughest kind. Books of travels
do indeed afford glimpses into the state of accommodation provided
for travellers in those ‘good old times,’ but they are only glimpses.
People, in recounting their wanderings in their own country, seldom
notice such matters, unless they find them either rather better or
rather worse than the prevailing condition of things to which the force
of habit has reconciled them. In truth, the inns of Great Britain in
the beginning of this century were what would now be reckoned of a
very humble class, and were frequently planted and to be discovered
in localities which would now be considered most undesirable, and
which were doubtless chosen from proximity either to markets or
to the stations of stage–coach departure and arrival, if they did
not themselves create them, and in positions where stabling and a
stable–yard might advantageously and fitly be placed.
The introduction and development of the railway system have effected
such an extraordinary increase in the amount of travelling as to
have, in respect of such public accommodation, produced, or rather
necessitated, a revolutionary change. The old little inn, with its
rubicund jovial hail–fellow–well–met landlord and its horsey adjuncts,
has in the larger towns all but disappeared, or, if left for the
benefit of the antiquary as a relic and specimen of a past age,
receives its chief patronage on market days from the farmers, who find
it convenient to stall their animals in its stables, and enjoy a homely
dinner at its moderate table. Instead of it, whole streets of hotels,
in the best situations, and possessed of all the comforts with which
modern civilisation can furnish them, are built and occupied, and in
busy times are sometimes full to overflowing. The very nomenclature
indicates a superior tone. The house ceases to be an ‘inn,’ and becomes
a ‘hotel.’ The Saracen Heads, the White Harts, and the Georges give
way to national or big swelling names. We are become imperial in the
very appellations we bestow even on houses in which we tarry only for a
night.
* * * * *
A similar or even greater reform has been attained in the Continental
towns. The discomforts of the old houses there were no doubt much
greater than they were with ourselves; and, indeed, even now, if we
abandon the tourists’ highway, or run away from the larger towns,
a primitive and perhaps far from agreeable state of matters is
discovered, the fact being that much of the improvement which has taken
place is due to studying the requirements of _les Anglais_. But in the
leading improvements the foreigners have led the van, and we may be
said to follow at a respectful distance.
* * * * *
The tendency abroad is, as it is at home, towards building large
establishments in which the rooms are reckoned by the hundred, one
of the hotels in Paris, the Grand (most new hotels abroad now have
‘Grand’ prefixed to some other and more distinctive designation, but
this is ‘The Grand’ _par excellence_), advertising as many as 800
rooms; another (the Louvre), 700,—figures which are beyond anything,
I suppose, in England, unless it be (though perhaps not even there) in
the Midland Railway Hotel, St. Pancras. There is at all times a greater
likelihood of finding accommodation, and such accommodation as may be
desired, in houses of such formidable dimensions; but the visitor’s
importance suffers a shock: he becomes nothing but a number, and as
such is termed by the _employés_ of the hotel, and shouted up and down
the speaking tubes.
* * * * *
But a more important result follows from the immense augmentation in
travelling, because the intercourse thus brought about between the
inhabitants of countries originally differing very widely in their
manners and customs has a direct tendency to assimilate not merely
their manners and customs, but their modes of living. Hence the
peculiarities of each gradually, if good, are adopted—if bad, are
lost. We borrow from the foreigners, they borrow from us. Odd ways and
angular corners get rubbed off, and Cæsar and Pompey settle down in
time ‘very much ‘like,’ specially Pompey. Yet, when one leaves the home
country, he happily discerns there are still remaining considerable
differences between life abroad and life in Britain. Hotels on the
Continent are conducted on somewhat different principles from those
which at least formerly were customary in Great Britain; and until the
dead level of uniformity be reached, it may not be uninteresting to
recall some of the differences, and to mention circumstances attendant
upon hotel life abroad, which, to those not very familiar with the
subject, may be noteworthy.
* * * * *
In general construction, the more recently erected hotels at home and
abroad do not materially differ. Tardily we are beginning to adopt the
foreign system of numerous and spacious public rooms, and especially
public drawing–rooms, to which ladies can freely resort. But in
one important element of comfort to the weak or weary visitor, the
foreigners are behind ourselves, inasmuch as lifts (_ascenseurs_) do
not seem to be very common; and really in these many–floored hotels
they are needed. The only places where we have seen them have been in
the hotels of Paris and Marseilles, and they were not always in working
order. In addition to the long stairs to be ascended, there are often
in these large hotels lengthy corridors to traverse, so that it is a
journey from the outer door to the bedroom, in some cases requiring a
study of the _locale_, so as to avoid being lost in the labyrinth.
* * * * *
Next to comfort, the matter of charges is one of primary consideration
to most travellers, and can scarcely be overlooked in treating of hotel
life. Generally it may be observed, that notwithstanding there has been
abroad, as there has been at home, a very considerable rise in charges
from former scales, the cost of living at hotels abroad is, as it used
to be, still under, or on an average considerably under, the cost for
similar comforts and accommodation at home.
The cost of rooms is regulated primarily by the floor or _étage_ on
which they are situated; and if the visitor desire to be economical,
he ought to ask for rooms upon the higher floors, say the third, or
even, where it exists, the fourth _étage_. First–floor rooms are always
charged high, sometimes exorbitantly so. At Milan we were shown into
bedrooms on the first floor, which, had we taken, would have cost us
about 20 to 25 francs per night per room. In Nice as much as 75 francs,
or £3 per day, have been asked for two rooms on the first floor of a
leading hotel, being equal to a rent per annum of £1095. A friend who
spent the winter at Cannes told me he paid 75 francs per day for the
rooms he had in one of the principal hotels, but probably he had three
or four rooms. In Mentone the highest I have known paid by friends has
been, for a large saloon and a bedroom, both princely rooms, 50 francs,
or about £2 per day, equal to a rent per annum, were they let all the
year round, of £730. These, however, are season places, and such rooms
would remain vacant a considerable portion of the year, and even, a
consequence of the high charge, for great part of the season, as the
hotelkeepers will not lower their price even for a short period.
In Italy it is always desirable, where there is an ability to mount
long stairs, to take rooms as high up as possible, so as to get as far
away as may be from the odours of the street; but the same rule as
regards the charges for rooms prevails. Perhaps in nothing do foreign
hotel charges differ more than in the charges for rooms. They differ
according to the place—that is, whether it be a large or a small
town; according to the hotel, whether it be first class or inferior;
and according to the rooms themselves, their position, size, and
furnishing, and also according as they are single or double bedded.
Abroad, nearly every bedroom large enough is so constructed as to fit
it for use also as a sitting–room or _salon_, in which friends may be
received. Sometimes the beds are placed in a recess or back part of the
room, which may be shut off at will by drawing a curtain. The rooms
abound with mirrors; but unless in houses frequented by the English,
there are for the most part no carpets on the floors, saving a rug at
the bedside, thus and otherwise involving an odd mixture of splendour
and discomfort. However, carpets are beginning to be more frequently
introduced. To those accustomed to the warmth of carpets, getting out
of bed in the morning is, when they are wanting, a chilly operation,
more especially when the floors are constructed, as they sometimes are,
I presume for protection against vermin, of composition.
On an average, I would say that a bedroom on a third floor, with
one bed for a single person, costs from 3 to 5 francs per night; a
double–bedded room, from 5 to 8 francs. On the second floor the price
is advanced a little; but the first floor is always high, varying
according to circumstances. In some fashionable places, such as
Nice and Biarritz, during the season the charge for rooms is, in
first–class hotels, as what I have already said shows, extravagantly
high. The season at Nice is not, like many places, for two or three
months only, but lasts the whole winter—half of the year. It ought not
therefore, one would think, to be so expensive.
But lights have to be paid for separately, and are usually charged at
hotels at the rate of 1 franc per _bougie_ or candle, although I have
seen only 75 centimes charged, and in some out–of–the–way places as
little as half a franc, or even, as at Chateau d’Œx, 30 centimes, upon
which no doubt there was a profit. I was told of the case of a visitor
at an expensive hotel in Nice who was, a good many years ago, charged
16 francs for _bougies_ for a single night. But this mode of plundering
is now so far abandoned, and one has only to be careful that more
candles than he desires be not lighted. The charge for _bougies_, if
remaining only single nights at hotels, becomes heavy; but if several
nights be spent in the house, the candles remain till burned down. It
is said that foreigners carry off their unburnt _bougies_ with them,
and use them at next stoppage, as they carry off also, it is alleged,
the sugar which they have not used, but for which they consider they
have paid. These, however, are petty habits, to which English people
have not yet got accustomed.
The charge for service is almost invariably 1 franc per night per
person. As lights are not charged in England, the united charge for
_bougies_ and service comes, for short periods, to be very much the
same as the charge in England for service alone.
Universally, abroad, the beds are constructed only to hold one person.
This may be, though it is not always, because of the summer’s heat. In
some rare cases the beds are found to be broad enough for two; but it
does not necessarily follow that the charge is in this case as for one
occupant. I have seen charge made for a broad bed as much as if the
room had contained two beds. In parts where mosquitoes exist, the beds
are draped with mosquito curtains.
Each room has its key and corresponding number, and the visitor is
expected, upon leaving his chamber, to lock his door, and hang the key
upon the key–board which is under charge of the _concierge_ at the
entrance to the hotel. In very large hotels, there is a key–board for
each floor, in charge of an attendant. So contrary is this system of
locking doors to the habits of the English, that it is often neglected
by them; so much so, that in hotels exclusively frequented by natives
of our isle, such a thing as locking doors and bringing down keys
would be looked upon as extraordinary. At one of these hotels, I asked
a servant, upon leaving my room after arrival, where the key should
be put, as I had seen no key–board. ‘Oh, just leave it in the door,’
was her reply. Foreigners always lock their doors, whatever may be
the establishment in which they are; and in many places, especially
in the large hotels of Paris, where nobody knows who may be his next
neighbour, it is highly proper and safe to do so. In this connection I
may just observe that somehow or other there are in most places hotels
which are only patronized by the English, and a foreigner is a _rara
avis_. Correspondingly, there are other hotels which they never visit.
There must be some species of intuitive freemasonry which underlies and
conduces to this result.
* * * * *
All hotels have a public _salle à manger_, to which both ladies and
gentlemen are expected to go, and nearly all have drawing–rooms or
reading–rooms, or both (_salons_ and _salons–de–lecture_). A lady
travelling by herself can freely go to all these rooms, and one
constantly meets such _dames seules_. No necessity is imposed upon them
to engage a _salon_ or sitting–room. But if desirous of taking them out
of the public rooms, the meals will be sent to the bedrooms, for which
luxury and extra trouble, however, there is a charge made, sometimes as
high, at least for dinner, as 2 francs or 3 francs per person per meal,
though usually only ½ franc.
In addition to placing in the reading–rooms newspapers, which
generally comprise one or more of the leading London journals (received
in many places within twenty–four hours of their publication), there
usually and most properly is in hotels, where visitors come for
lengthened periods, a small collection of books sufficient to beguile
an hour or a wet day.
* * * * *
The three chief meals of the day are breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
In what I shall call the English hotels, almost everybody maintains
the good old English custom of coming down to the _salle–à–manger_ to
breakfast; but foreigners, consistently with their home practice, take
their meagre breakfast or cup of coffee, scarcely to be designated
breakfast, in their bedroom. English people cannot get reconciled
to the idea of taking meals in a room in which they sleep. It is an
uncomfortable and unsocial custom, essentially bad—keeps the bedrooms
long from being attended to, and imposes much additional labour on the
servants, who are kept flying up and down stairs at all hours of the
morning with breakfast equipage.
The usual charge at all hotels, at least as against Englishmen, for
breakfast proper (tea, coffee, or chocolate, with bread and butter)
is 1½ francs. Occasionally, though very rarely, I have found it only
charged 1 franc, and once, viz. at Toulouse, 2 francs. Eggs are
universally charged 25 centimes (2½d.) each; meats and fish, according
to _carte_, and generally expensive.
* * * * *
But foreigners make a more substantial meal a little later on, which
they call _déjeuner à la fourchette_, corresponding somewhat to our
lunch. This is intended to be the real breakfast, and, according to
true Continental fashion, it proceeds at many places at so early an
hour as half–past ten, at others at eleven or twelve o’clock. In
such cases it is found to be a most substantial repast, consisting
of several courses, generally three—meat courses, pudding or tart
course and cheese, and fruit courses; and it is in reality an early
dinner, the whole company in the hotel assembling to enjoy it, unless
individually they otherwise arrange. In the English hotels they have
‘lunch’ usually at one o’clock; but this is of a much less substantial
nature, the visitor having been credited with making _more Anglici_
a good breakfast in the morning. The charge for _déjeuner_ or lunch
differs according to the hotel, but is usually about 3 francs.
* * * * *
The _table–d’hôte_ dinner is a regular Continental institution, which
it would be well were it made the rule at home. Meaning literally
dinner at the table of the host, I presume that at one time, and before
the establishment of great hotels, the host regularly presided. This,
however, is now rarely seen, although I have sat down to dine at a
table where he took his place. Rising as each course arrived, and
putting on an apron, he would with dexterous rapidity carve what was
brought in, then, putting off his apron, would sit down again and take
part with the guests.
Each hotel has its fixed hour for this dinner, varying in time from
six to seven o’clock. I have also seen a special _table–d’hôte_ dinner
at eight o’clock, to suit those arriving by late trains. In places
frequented by Germans, such as Interlachen, they have two dinner
hours—one at two o’clock, for the Germans chiefly; and the other in the
evening, to suit those who prefer dining at a later hour. The hotel
people are frequently disturbed and put about by visitors, usually
English people, inexcusably coming tardily to table. The charge for
_table–d’hôte_ dinner varies a good deal at different places, 4 to 5
francs being about the average rate, though occasionally it is less. In
Paris some of the large hotels charge 6 francs—wine, however, included,
as is customary in Paris.
The dinner, which is served _à la Russe_, consists of many courses, and
is not, generally speaking, of the substantial character of an English
home dinner. The routine is everywhere the same, and consists of the
following courses, which the waiters present at the division assigned
to each quietly at sound of finger bell:—(1) Potage or soup; (2) Fish,
when it can be had, otherwise a substitute; (3) Entrées; (4) Vegetables
by themselves, such as cauliflower, French beans or peas; (5) Poultry
or game, or otherwise roast beef or roast mutton, accompanied
invariably by salad or lettuce, and water–cresses; (6) Pudding or tart;
(7) Fruits; (8) Sweet biscuits. In some of the grander places there is
a course of ice–cream, and in other hotels ice–creams take the place
of pudding on Sundays, or sometimes on both Sundays and Thursdays.[8]
Such is the invariable routine, the only variety being in the specific
description of the articles in each course. The great want in these
dinners is of a good supply of vegetables; bread, not so wholesome,
being supplied at discretion. It would be better if some of the viands
were dispensed with, and more vegetables given. Such a thing as a good
dry potato, what they call _au naturel_, is hardly known. Potatoes are
served up greased in every conceivable way, or, if presented dry or in
their skins, they are accompanied by a separate plate of butter. One
course often excites remark by English visitors. It is where the game
course consists of small birds, especially thrushes. These afford a
miserable bite apiece, and, for a party of 40 or 50, as many birds fall
to be sacrificed, the rule of the table being that every guest is, or
has the opportunity of being, served alike. At Cannes, at one of the
hotels (season 1876–77), a round robin was subscribed by the English
of the party, protesting against such use of thrushes—I do not know
with what effect. They were to be sometimes seen hanging in bunches at
the poulterers’ doors. It seems a cruel use of such song–birds, which
are fed upon grapes to fatten them for the table; yet all the grapes
they could swallow, even though in quantity enough to satisfy the grape
cure, would never make them more than a miserable picking.
* * * * *
The quantities of eggs, fowl, and game which are needed to supply so
many tables must be enormous; and as one sees very few live poultry
anywhere, it has occasioned me surprise to think how they can be
procured. The only feasible explanation is that the country is
ransacked far and near for food to supply the luxurious tables of the
hotels, and the wants of town populations. In a book published in 1857
by Dr. Frederick Johnson,[9] it is stated with regard to Paris alone—
‘That the great Metropolitan maw occupies 712 bakers, and daily
consumes 479,015 loaves and rolls (we abandon verbal computation in
despair), and annually 6,849,449 poultry, 1,329,964 larks, 26,000 kids,
9,937,430 kilos of fish (the kilo being 2–1/5 lbs. English), 5,006,770
kilos of confectionery, 150,223,006 kilos of pears; that yearly each
Parisian swallows 69 oysters, 165 eggs, 137 quarts of wine, and 14
quarts of beer among his other luxuries; and that among them, in their
little enjoyments, they gossip over 3,000,000 kilos of coffee, 350,000
kilos of chicory, 2,000,000 lbs. of chocolate, and 40,000 kilos of tea,
assisted by 109,221,086 quarts of milk. Teetotallers may be alarmed
for the public sobriety when they learn that, besides the wines and
brandies, our Parisian pleasure–seekers dispose of 1,267,230 quarts of
liqueurs, to say nothing of 350,000 kilos of brandied bonbons, and that
they cool the consequences with 500,000 quarts of ice.’
If such be the consumption of Paris, and this is more than twenty
years ago, what must that be of all France, to say nothing of other
Continental countries? Our box of figure–counters would soon be
exhausted in vain attempts at the calculation. We should have to borrow
largely from the astronomers.
* * * * *
The guests are, of course, expected to help themselves to only a small
portion of each course. We once (in 1862) saw an Englishman in Paris,
unacquainted with the customs either of France or of good society,
appropriate to himself at one round nearly all that was in the dish,
and we never could pass that untutored savage without thinking of
the plateful of coarse beef which he had doomed himself to eat. But
most Germans, Dutch and Spanish people feed very largely, and make no
scruple as a practice to take double supplies, and the largest and
best pieces of everything which comes round, leaving those who come
after them wofully scant.[10] The waiters are well acquainted with this
habit, and pander to it, possibly in hope of fees. At Biarritz, where
we experienced a singular practice of the waiter doling out portions
to the visitors (on the footing, perhaps, that some of them could not
be trusted to leave even a wreck behind), they, as matter of course,
placed upon the plates of the Spaniards of the company large quantities
of each course, while when they came to ourselves we received often
such small portions that we would occasionally complain and get more.
* * * * *
At many places in France and elsewhere, wine is included in the charge
for dinner. In this case it is the _vin ordinaire_ of the place, and
is generally good if fresh; but as the practice is to put down a carafe
to each two persons, much of it is often left. I have sometimes found
the wine sour, evidently arising from having been kept from day to
day, adding only what was necessary to replenish the carafes. The _vin
ordinaire_ costs the hotelkeeper very little, although he would charge
from 1 franc to 2 francs per bottle for it if ordered. Everybody is
expected to take wine, even children; and where wine is not included
and set down, the waiter goes round, not asking whether you wish
wine, but, ‘What wine will you take?’ and you have to select from the
_carte_. I have been much surprised at the great differences in the
price of wine at different places. The same kind of wine is charged
at one place, it may be three, even four times as much as at another;
and in general the price rises, and rises far out of reason, according
to the distance from which the wine is supposed to come. Many lay it
down as a rule to take the wine of the district in which they for the
time being are; and it can, at all events, be had good of its kind and
cheap, costing, some kinds, from 1 franc to 2 francs per bottle. This,
which in the locality is called _vin ordinaire_, elsewhere becomes a
high–priced wine. A fair quality of wine can in general be had at about
3 francs or 2s. 6d. per bottle, although it is observable that the
bottles are so made as evidently to be incapable of containing a quart.
If they be not small in size, they are sure deceptively to have a large
hollow lump of glass in the bottom. Wine, with the exception of the
better descriptions, is never drunk pure, but is poured into a tumbler
and mixed with water, about half of each.
* * * * *
When dinner, lasting about an hour, is over, everybody is expected to
rise and leave the room. At one hotel the waiters compelled retreat by
opening all the windows. They have to clear the table and wash up, and
are naturally anxious to have the room to themselves. Besides, in many
places, the servants’ supper takes place at ring of bell immediately
after dinner, and no doubt the waiters are anxious to join. Their
dinner bell in like manner rings after lunch. Visitors are seldom aware
of these internal arrangements, or alive to them if they be.
If one does not dine at _table d’hôte_, to dine _à la carte_, by
selecting out of a list, is costly, and should if possible be avoided.
When arriving too late for _table d’hôte_, we have found in some places
that we could order a dinner for which the same regular charge was
made as at _table d’hôte_, although perhaps this might not be done for
a single visitor. At other places the better course, particularly in
Italy, is to order a dinner at a given figure, leaving the hotel to
supply what they choose. One is certain by doing so to be better off.
* * * * *
At table, various Continental practices may be noticed, and among
others a very singular custom which the German gentlemen have of
tucking their napkins under their chins, and spreading them over the
breast like a row of babies with their bibs on. I never could look at a
German so arrayed without thinking of the minister who,
‘Being wi’ the palsy tribbled, In liftin’ spoonfu’s aften dribbled;
Sae, to prevent the draps o’ broth, Prinn’d to his breast the
tablecloth.’
Some explanation of this ludicrous practice is perhaps to be found in
the painful habit which the generality of Germans have—occasionally
ladies as well as men—of eating with their knives. English people
cannot witness this fearful and wonderful operation without a nervous
dread of the result. But there is this to be said for the Germans, that
although some of their customs be peculiar, and not to be copied, they
are great linguists, and enter agreeably in English into conversation;
and I only mention such little foibles, that they may ‘see themselves
as others see them.’ In many places—Switzerland particularly—there
is put down upon the table here and there a case of what turns out to
be toothpicks. One would think that those who choose to injure their
teeth by means of such instruments and perform an odious cleansing,
would prefer to keep their private pick, as much as their private
tooth–brush, and use it in their private room.
We found the Dutch people ceremoniously polite. They never sat down
and never rose from the table, never entered a room and never left it,
without bowing to all round. It always kept us in a fidget lest they
should not receive like courtesy; but it is a very pleasant trait of
character in a people whom we found to be not merely externally polite,
but kind and cordial at heart.
* * * * *
At the hotels, unless they be what I have called English hotels, one
usually meets with people of all countries. In one hotel in France,
I was informed we had representatives of eight different nations,
counting English, Scotch, and Irish as one. It has struck me, however,
that although the French language is so generally spoken, the French
themselves, while found travelling in every part of their own land, are
very seldom seen in other countries. I was on one occasion sitting next
a bright Parisian young lady, and rather wickedly, I fear, was exalting
Edinburgh so as to suggest its taking the palm from Paris. She was
astonished, and having asked her when she was coming to see Edinburgh,
she replied very decidedly, though in the very bewitching way in which
the French girls speak, ‘Jamais, ne–verre,’ which honestly meant
there was no probability she would, although the emphasis no doubt
was intended as a delicate rebuke to the heretical presumption of my
thought. _La belle France_ is _tout le monde_ to Frenchmen; nor do they
get much encouragement to cross the English Channel, for I have noticed
that they are, as a rule, most unhappy sailors.
One meets with all peoples and tongues and sorts at the dinner table.
Now, much of comfort at that interesting time depends upon who sit next
you. Dining at a long table with a large company is never so genial as
dining round a smaller table in a party of six or eight. Intercourse
is almost limited to those on the right and left, unless you and those
opposite have strong voices and be both remarkably socially inclined.
This, bad enough at home, is intensified abroad, not merely among
strangers, but strangers who are foreigners, with whose language you
may not be particularly acquainted. Everything, then, turns on the
question, ‘Who is my neighbour?’ and in this respect one is all but
entirely at the mercy of the waiters, who have not the grimmest idea
of social assortment; and it may be that you are for weeks together
placed next to those with whom you have no _rapport_ or fellow–feeling
or congeniality of tastes—nay, with whom you may be unable to exchange
a word. When it is otherwise, and people are social, intelligent, well
read, and without necessarily being clever are cheerful, the dinner
hour becomes a pleasant episode of the day.
But it is often otherwise. It is bad enough to get placed beside
a foreigner whose language, perhaps, you can read, but whose oral
pronunciation is perfectly unintelligible; or beside a very stout
and important lady whose ideas, if she have any, run on subjects
with which you have no possible sympathy—who is too ponderous, or
whose composite capital, perhaps stuck tenderly on with pins, is—it
may, from the steadiness of her carriage, be supposed—considered by
her too fragile to bear the shaking and jolting of a joke—or really,
to confess the truth, one whom, it may possibly be, you cannot be
bothered to entertain; or beside a young lady who speaks so low and
so timidly, that in the din of dinner it is literally impossible to
hear what she says. Nor is it less distressing to be placed beside a
very deaf person who not only does not catch what you say, but, as
usual with deaf people, speaks indistinctly. Few have not had such an
experience as this. You are seated beside what appears to you to be a
very amiable, comfortable, benign old lady. The beverage before you is
in a condition which it would not be safe to swallow for a little. You
are both resting on your oars, or rather on your spoons. The moment
is favourable for an opening speech. The subject you select is one of
personal and common interest. The observation you hazard is such as
would in no event occasion a division bell to ring. Quietly you say,
‘The soup is hot.’ She inclines her face as if she had just heard you
were talking in her direction. ‘The soup is hot.’ An inquiring glance
is directed to you. Again you repeat rather louder, ‘The soup is hot.’
‘Sir,’ she replies. In an alto and rather excited pitch you proclaim,
‘The soup is hot.’ By this time everybody has been turning a listening
ear. ‘Beg your pardon, sir; but I am rather deaf.’ ‘Madam’ (in an
altissimo and crescendo style), ‘The soup _is_ HOT.’ ‘Yes,’ she blandly
replies, ‘the room is very hot.’ You are for ever and for ever shut up,
and retire from the struggle hot enough yourself.
But sometimes the wet blanket comes in another form. I was at one place
agreeably set on several occasions beside a lively young German lady,
who spoke English fluently. At our first interview I asked, ‘What was
their national dish? was it _Sauer–kraut_?’ ‘No, it was larks.’ ‘Oh,
you barbarians,’ I replied; ‘do you eat canaries and parrots?’ at which
the fair damsel was much shocked. ‘What’s that?’ obviously whispers
the heavy German next her on her other side, and this and every other
like passage of nonsense had to be translated word for word into this
intensely philomathic alien, but withal kindly guide, philosopher, and
friend of my young neighbour.
I was for a considerable time at another place seated next a most
intelligent member of the French bar, whose bad health unfortunately
added to a natural taciturnity. He could speak English, and liked to do
so. We formed ourselves into a mutual instruction society—I to correct
his good English, and he to correct my bad French. But as he preferred
English conversation, and I was too lazy to bore him with my French,
the educational advantages on my side were reduced to the _minimum
visible_. However, we enjoyed to some extent rational conversation
on subjects of interest, imparting information to each other, and
discussing where we differed. Here was ‘the feast of reason.’ But,
though my friend could enjoy all that creates a laugh, ‘the flow of
soul’ would not have produced a deluge, or even turned a mill–wheel of
moderate dimensions. There is nothing so difficult as to get merry with
those who speak another language, into which everything has mentally
and slowly to be translated, and the flashes of merriment often will
neither brook translation nor abide deliberative meditation. The ball
must be kept up. Any efforts in that direction were therefore of a
ponderous kind. Sometimes I would, with all due and becoming gravity,
put a case to him in French law. ‘If,’ for example, I would say to
him; ‘if a Frenchman were to die, leaving an estate as large as this
room (a tolerably big one), and twelve children?’ ‘Oh, but,’ he would
interpose, smiling, ‘we have no estates so small,’ and perhaps he might
have added, ‘No families so large.’
From him I was shifted for a time to the agreeable society of a
blooming Swedish lady, who could speak no language but her own, and
who was uncommonly ready to imagine others were laughing at her, and
accordingly to take offence. In this fix, to make the best of it, I
returned to school to remedy the neglects of early life, and being a
docile and apparently a reverent pupil, I advanced with such rapid
strides to proficiency in the Swedish tongue, that in not many days I
learnt that in that hitherto supposed outlandish language _chrystal_ is
‘chrystal’ and _knife_ is ‘knife;’ and had my studies been prolonged,
I doubt not that I should in time have come to know that the honest
Swedish people do call a spade a spade.
This interesting pursuit of knowledge under difficulties was, however,
brought to an abrupt close by my being torn away and transferred to
the company of an Irish young lady, from whom I speedily elicited that
she came from the neighbourhood of Kilkenny. This _was_ irresistible.
‘Have you seen the tails of the two cats?’ ‘Oh, yes’ (with a merry
twinkle); ‘they are in the Kilkenny Museum.’ This museum may, like
Aladdin’s palace, have been built up in a night; but ere twenty–four
hours had elapsed, it was stocked from floor to ceiling with such
marvellous rarities as by no possibility had been ever either dreamt of
in philosophy, or, what is more, conceived in the fertile brain of the
great Barnum.
In season places, such shiftings about are few and far between; but in
touring localities, during the travelling season, when you are more
or less frequently changing your own quarters, and all around are
changing almost daily too, one is shuffled about like a card, and more
vicissitudes of association are experienced than befell the noted Gil
Blas of Santillane in the course of his eventful life.
* * * * *
The rule of the hotels seems to be that the latest comers take the
bottom of the table, and move up according as those before them leave.
At the same time this rule was frequently infringed, and in some places
we had always to ask where to sit. Of course all meet on a footing
of equality, and it is customary for those of title—especially for
foreign titled persons, unless of the highest rank—to dine with the
other visitors. On one occasion, at a small party of ten or twelve,
an old gentleman appeared, to whom the ladies in the _salon_ had, on
his entrance, bowed profoundly. We afterwards learned from one of them
he was a distinguished foreign prince. An English marchioness or an
English duke will occasionally appear at table, but I fancy English
noblemen rarely condescend to do so. We were, however, often finding
that at the table with us were foreign persons of rank of all grades,
and the foreigners of title with whom we became at all acquainted were
always very friendly and unassuming. But generally in travelling we
could not tell who were our neighbours. It was for the most part from
the lists of visitors that the names of those in the hotel could be
discovered, and occasionally these have been of royal rank. In this
case they were necessarily notable, and although they did not come to
the public table, yet they were seen in the gardens; and sometimes they
travelled with large retinues, and could not escape observation. At
Interlachen, General Grant and his wife came to the Jungfrau Hotel, at
which we were. He was on the night of his arrival serenaded by a brass
band, which played till near midnight, the musicians no doubt regarding
the sweet and melodious sounds of trombones and ophicleides atoned for
any disturbance of the slumber of the visitors, or even of the probably
wearied General himself.
* * * * *
All the Continental hotels are, with few exceptions, prepared to take
visitors upon pension—that is, on board. But there are establishments
which, _par excellence_, are termed pensions. The line of demarcation
is very slender, and some hotels are truly pensions, while some
pensions are truly hotels. The pension strict, however, is a less
grand house than the hotel. It is for the most part a large private
house, without, though not always without, the parade of _concierge_
and other distinctive marks of an hotel. As a rule, to which there
are exceptions, it is more homely, there is less style in the method
of conducting, less appearance about the rooms, and smaller attention
paid to service and sanitary arrangements. On the other hand, the
company is smaller, and as the people come to remain for periods of
time, they fraternize better, and there is a good deal more of the home
feeling in a pension than ever finds its way into any hotel. The better
class of pensions profess to require an introduction, but it does not
necessarily follow that the company is more select; on the contrary,
as they are usually rather less expensive than hotels, the company is
not unfrequently of a mixed description, and consequently the name
pension is, to some extent, in disfavour with those English people who
can afford to pay hotel charges, and prefer more style.
At hotels, the rule, sometimes relaxed for a party, is that people are
not taken on pension under a week. A similar rule prevails in pensions
proper, and indeed during pension season it is usually necessary to
secure quarters in pensions proper, and even in hotels, by writing for
rooms some considerable time previously.
* * * * *
The charge for pension varies very greatly, according to the place, to
the situation of the rooms, and to the season.
In former days the pension charge was extremely moderate. One old
gentleman told me that in his younger days the charge in Switzerland,
at least, was 3 francs per day for everything; but this was a charge
as against foreigners only, and he, then a young Englishman, succeeded
in getting off upon this low rate by being taken for a German, he
being with a party of Germans. Even till more recent years, one would
hear of 5 francs per day being a normal charge. These good old times
have not wholly disappeared, for to this day, in some outlying places
in Switzerland, pension at a very low rate can be procured. We spent
eight days at the Hotel Berthod, Chateau d’Œx, which lies up among the
mountains, a long day’s journey from Interlachen, _en route_ for Aigle;
and the charge was only 5 francs per day, with 20 centimes for service,
besides _bougies_, which were charged only 30 centimes each. This was
upon the second floor, which we preferred, as less noisy, to that
below at 6 francs. The charge on the third floor was, I believe, even
a shade less. The hotel was a wooden house of large size, and could
accommodate at least eighty guests, and in the season was generally
full, while the company was so far select, being out of the beaten
track of tourists. The accommodation was necessarily somewhat rough,
but every attention was paid, as far as practicable, to the comfort
of the visitors. Considering that its season lasts for scarcely three
months in the year, one would be surprised to think it possible it
could pay; but it seems that the landlord’s brother had formerly kept
the establishment, and had retired with a competence. Everything,
however, with one exception, was cheap at Chateau d’Œx, which boasts of
several establishments of the same kind, one of them (though two miles
off), ‘Rosinière,’ the largest chalet in Switzerland, and picturesquely
situated in a secluded spot, dating back to 1754.
Pension includes breakfast, lunch, dinner, bedroom, and service,
sometimes also lights. Occasionally service is made a separate charge,
and is stated at from ½ franc to 1 franc per day, according to place.
In many good hotels in Switzerland and elsewhere, pension can be had
at 8 francs per day. At Lugano the charge, I noticed, during summer
(1st April to 31st October), is 8 to 11 francs; during winter, 6 francs
to 7 francs 50 centimes. Both at Interlachen and Montreux, we paid
at the rate of 8 francs, and had excellent quarters in first–class
hotels. With other rooms supposed to be better, the charge would have
been 10 francs per day. But in the height of the Interlachen season,
the hotels will not readily begin to take people _en pension_. At
Chamounix we were told, on a former tour in the month of August, that
the hotels there would not take _en pension_ after 15th July. By that
time English tourists begin to arrive in great shoals, and often
find much difficulty in getting quarters. When this takes place, the
applications are either refused, or the visitors are accommodated in
dependencies, which are either houses or chalets attached to the hotel,
or in some cases simply houses in the villages in which the natives can
spare a room, and therefore not always desirable. Pension in Italy and
France is charged at a little higher rate than in Switzerland. We found
that, upon an average, 10 or 12 francs a day was the charge in these
countries; but according to the accommodation, it would either rise
above or fall below this rate, varying from 8 to 15 or 16 francs per
day. As the charge of 8 francs, which seldom secures any but a north
room, covers everything pension includes, there must be a profit out
of it, and all above that amount ought to be clear extra gain. Eight
francs per day amounts to £116 per annum, 15 francs per day to £219—a
good rate of board.
In season places great contrast often exists between the charges for
pension during the season and after it is over. Thus at Biarritz,
during the winter months, pension might have been had at 7 francs per
diem, but during the two months of summer season (August and September,
on to 15th October) the charges at the principal hotels are high. For
rooms alone the charge may be from 20 to 25 francs on the second floor,
and from 12 to 14 francs per day on the third floor, the first floor
being much more costly. However, we found at the Hotel de Paris, on
18th September, towards the close of the season, which may have made
a difference, fairly comfortable rooms on the first floor, in a good
situation, at a moderate rate. Sometimes with first–floor rooms the
usual charges for living are made separately or in addition to the
charge for rooms.
* * * * *
Fire in the private rooms is always an extra. Nowhere is coal burnt,
at least that we have seen, unless in the northern parts of France.
The visitor, when he wishes fire, is supplied with a basket of wood,
the size and the quality of which vary very much, as do the prices. It
consists of logs sawn into pieces about 12 to 18 inches long, and split
up, and the kind of wood necessarily varies with the locality. In the
olive–growing countries it is olive wood, which burns slowly. At Pau it
is the short oak grown in the woods in the vicinity. In other places
it is pine wood, which burns rapidly. At Lyons we paid 2 francs for a
small pannier of soft wood, which lasted two nights. At Mentone a large
pannier of olive wood, probably mixed with pine, cost 2 francs 20
centimes, and lasted much longer. If we had no fire during the day, and
we found day fires very rarely necessary in Mentone, a pannier would
last us nearly a week for one fire per evening, lit after dinner. At
Spezzia, where the wood burnt very fast, the pannier was charged 3·50
francs. At Pisa the charge was 3 francs; and at Rome, had we found it
needful, we should have been charged at the hotel, for each room, 5
francs for a pannier which would not have lasted more than two nights.
Indeed, at Rome the expense of wood is so serious an extra charge, that
I have heard of a gentleman with a large and perhaps extravagant family
feeling obliged to curtail his visit on that account.
The wood is laid across two iron dogs, and emits, especially in the
case of olive wood, good heat. The ashes of former fires are always
left lying between the dogs, and greatly help to keep the fire in. The
ashes smoulder away for a long time, and bellows, always hung by the
fireside, will bring them to a glow long after they are apparently dead.
The dogs are hardly suitable for coals, but might not a good trade in
coals with the Continent be brought about? I suppose the abundance
of wood renders it unnecessary. But a great deal may result from the
force of habit, or, not improbably, there may be a prohibitory duty
preventing the people from using coal.
* * * * *
One very annoying item of extra expense consists in the fees with
which servants expect to be tipped at leaving. Many persons refuse to
give anything, on the strictly theoretically–correct ground that they
have already paid for service in the bills. Such persons, at least if
English people, seem to be looked upon as shabby. On the other hand,
there are those, principally English, who are very lavish with their
largess, and really do their successors much harm, leading the servants
to be on the outlook for handsome fees. In Italy the evil is, I think,
most felt. In France, however, it is bad enough. If one be but a
single night at a hotel, chamber–maid, waiters, _concierge_, porters,
conductors, and even drivers of omnibuses—all expect donations, and
stand hovering about (perhaps perform useless little services), that
they may not be lost sight of. Nor is the evil less at pensions,
where I have had more than once to fee no less than seven attendants,
being the whole menial establishment. It becomes a very heavy tax,
amounting to no small sum at the end of a long tour, as one does not
like to be shabby, or thought so. At pensions and hotels at Christmas
time, every servant with whom the visitor has had to do expects his
or her five–franc piece at the least; and this really one does not at
that festive season so much grudge, if dwelling in the house for the
winter, although the feeing process has to be repeated at leaving, and
intermediately for any supposed extra services. I must say, however,
that the only suggestion of a donation at Christmas came from the
_portier_ of our hotel at Mentone, who addressed a lithographed card to
each visitor on the 1st of January: ‘Le portier de l’Hotel vous souhait
une bonne et heureuse année.’ And no doubt a similar lithographed card
was used with effect by all the porters of the place, and made the
ignorant or unthinking aware of what they were expected to do.
The only person outside the establishment who suggested a benefaction
by the enclosure of a card was the postman, who, no doubt, was
cheerfully boxed by every visitor.
I suppose that complaints of this practice of tipping or expecting
fees reached the ears of the landlords, who, honest men, no doubt
had found their advantage in it; for, in the summer of 1877, nine of
the principal hotels in Switzerland announced to the public that,
with a view to putting a stop to it, they should thenceforth make a
charge which would cover everything, so that visitors should not be
annoyed longer in this way. But the system which they did adopt was an
erroneous one, and was only calculated to place an additional burden
on their guests—in other words, they made an extra charge for their
rooms; so that the occupants had to pay nightly, in some cases, perhaps
as much as they would have paid once for all as gratuity, while in many
cases gratuities would continue to be given. We came upon one of these
hotels, the Schweizerhoff in Lucerne. Here, in conformity with the new
rule, one charge was made for rooms per night, inclusive of attendance
and lights, and a bill was stuck up in the rooms containing a notice in
the following terms:—
‘_Avis. Messieurs les étrangers sont priés de ne plus donner de pour
boires aux employés de l’Hotel. Toute le service dans l’intérieur
de l’Hotel ainsi que l’éclairage est compris dans le prix de
l’appartement._’
Such a notice was only valuable if it had borne that the servants
were _expressly prohibited_, upon pain of dismissal, from taking any
gratuity; but while it contained nothing but what was always previously
implied in the charge for service, and left the charge for porterage
of luggage as performed _extérieur_ (a service which has always been
recompensed by a gratuity, and which the porter here duly accepted),
the very form of the notice, ‘Pray, don’t,’ rather suggests the idea
that you ought to give. The evil is really so great that a more
efficient and beneficial method ought to be taken by the hotels.
In Italy I have sometimes been asked for a gratuity by a messenger from
a shop on delivering a purchase made.
* * * * *
Hotel bills are usually rendered and paid once a week. At Bellagio an
admirable system was in use. Bills were rendered every day, although
payment was not expected oftener than once a week. In this way any
mistake could at once be rectified; and we did find occasionally—as
every one must, especially in the touring season, when the sojourners
are daily shifting—rectification to be necessary. It would be much in
the interest of the landlords to make the practice universal, because
where any entry has been charged to the wrong person, the person to
whom it ought to have been charged may have left before discovery
has been made. The waiters write, sign, and deliver to the clerk a
slip containing every order, as the means of making up the books, and
sometimes, perhaps, from not wishing to give offence by asking, put
by mistake the wrong name to the order. In London a better system is,
where the guest is requested to write the order himself, heading the
memorandum with his name and number. In some—I am bound to say, only a
few—cases in France, the landlord regularly charges his guests with the
penny Government receipt stamp on discharging the bill. Honestly, this
ought to be borne by himself.
* * * * *
Messrs. Cook and Gaze both issue hotel coupons. These are made up
as books of three per day. One portion covers bedroom, lights, and
service for one person; but it bears that porterage is not included,
and a charge for conveying luggage to and from the bedroom to the door
is then (I think erroneously) occasionally made in the bill, though
the doing so does not exempt from the customary fee expected by the
porters. Another portion covers plain tea or breakfast; and a third,
dinner at _table d’hôte_, with or without wine, according to the
usual practice of the hotel. Cook’s tickets cost 8s., Gaze’s cost 8s.
6d., but the latter entitle the holder to eggs or meat at breakfast.
The hotels of both firms are for the most part unobjectionable,
but the question is whether the coupons are or are not of any real
advantage. As to this, people who have not used them are generally
much puzzled. I had never, in travelling abroad, tried them before,
but thought, upon entering Italy, where it is reputed (contrary to my
subsequent experience) that one requires to be upon his guard against
hotel imposition, I might make experiment to a limited extent, and
accordingly purchased enough at Nice to last us about fourteen days.
On an average, I believe it will be found that, taking bedroom
accommodation at the lower rates, or as for the upper _étages_, the
price of the coupons is very much the same as the hotel charges
would come to. In some hotels, in the smaller places, the charges may
occasionally come to a trifle less, especially if there be a party; in
others, in the larger towns, the hotel charges will certainly exceed
it. In a pecuniary point of view, therefore, and supposing people are
constantly on the wing, they will find that upon the whole the saving
is not large, but that, in any view, there is a clear advantage in
using them in large and expensive towns such as Marseilles and Nice.
However, if it be intended to stay long enough in a hotel to warrant
going upon pension, it can frequently be arranged to obtain pension at
the same rate as is payable for the coupons, the effect of which is
that lunch is thrown into the bargain, saving 3 francs per day.
In Italy also the advantage of exchange is lost, the coupons being only
purchasable with English money.
The coupons save a little trouble and shorten the bills. To those
unable to speak a foreign tongue, they are additionally valuable. On
the other hand, I fear the traveller is a good deal at the mercy of the
landlord in regard to rooms. It is quite in his power to say he has no
better. But if the house be not full, there is a possibility of being
assigned the best rooms, and so obtaining accommodation for which,
without coupons, a high charge would be made.
My limited experience gave me rather a dislike for them, and led me to
feel I was more independent, and had a chance of being better served,
by paying my way in the usual manner. At a town in Italy, I mentioned
on arrival, as is required, that I had Cook’s coupons and intended
to use them. When the bill at leaving was rendered, I pointed out
that it had not been stated as on this footing. It turned out that
for the two nights we stayed at the house, the hotel charges (we were
most comfortable in every respect) came to 6 francs 75 centimes less
for our party than the cost of the coupons. Yet the landlady looked
black when I pointed out the mistake, and seemed, while I was actually
paying more, as if she thought me imposing on her. I felt so annoyed
that I would never use them again in Italy. Months afterwards, when
in a town in Switzerland, I resolved to employ what remained, and
in driving up to the hotel on Cook’s list, told the landlord so. I
noticed he did not seem to relish the intimation, and when we visited
the rooms allotted to us, we found them dismal chambers looking into
the courtyard. I rebelled, and we got cheerful and better rooms on
the floor above. This showed that we could not always quite rely upon
getting the best accommodation possible, notwithstanding the coupons
in this instance came to more than we could have pensioned for at the
hotel, according to its own printed tariff. I afterwards learnt that
the reason of dislike is, that the London house has a small commission
(which is quite reasonable, and perhaps is not much objected to),
and that settlements with the hotelkeepers do not take place for, it
may be, some months after the bills are incurred, which may produce
considerable inconvenience to some hotelkeepers. Were it possible to
arrange for more frequent, say monthly settlements, perhaps all cause
of dissatisfaction would be obviated, for otherwise the system must be
most advantageous to the hotels which are on the London lists.
I must, however, put against these two instances, which may be very
exceptional, the fact that I had used the coupons previously at two
other hotels in Italy, and subsequently at another in Switzerland, and
another in France, and met with every civility and attention, while
they at once gave us excellent accommodation. Friends also who have
frequently taken advantage of them, have told me that they preferred
them, and would always in travelling avail themselves of the system.
* * * * *
To vary the monotony of the pension life, or from the inherent idea
that gaiety is essential to existence, the hotel and pension keepers
get up, from time to time, little entertainments in the _salons_. Of
these, a dance is the most frequent; but in place of a quiet dance
in the drawing–room to music on the piano by one of the guests, it
seems to be considered essential to hire a band of musicians. Perhaps
this practice is more in accordance with the French love of noise and
display; but it both occasions unnecessary expense, and has less of
the social about it. At other times we have had a conjurer introduced
to exhibit tricks of magic. Manifestly he has not the same facilities
as in a room fitted up for the purpose, but the tricks were sometimes
novel, and interest people, particularly the young. On other occasions
we have had special musical evenings, and at Interlachen a band of
Tyrolese singers every now and then, I think almost weekly, gave
an entertainment at the hotel; and as visitors at Interlachen are
always changing, the audience would for the most part be different.
We have also had little plays by strolling actors, and even on one
occasion a small attempt at operatic performance. Perhaps, of all the
entertainments by professionals, the most novel to us and beautiful was
what we witnessed at Sorrento. We were then lodging at the Tramontano
Hotel, and one evening were informed that we should witness the
Tarantala Dance. Round one of the larger rooms chairs were placed for
the guests (numbering probably over sixty). When all were assembled, of
a sudden two dancers bounded lightly into the room, quickly followed
by other pairs—the men dressed in white, with Roman sashes round
the waist; women in gay bodices and white skirts, all looking clean
and tidy, and very specially got up for the occasion. These young
people, to the number of eight, executed a most lively dance to the
music performed by others on mandolins, all the dancers being armed
with castanets, with which they maintained an incessant click–clack,
keeping time to the music. The dance, perhaps invented and practised
by Terpsichore herself, and which it would require a master of the art
to describe, in general outline somewhat resembled a Scotch reel,
but with what I would call Italian variations. It was sprightly and
graceful, and the bright dresses added much to the effect. There were
several different varieties of the dance, and between the dances we
were favoured with some national melodies. One most comical exhibition
consisted in the leader, who was a barber of the village, fastening a
loose piece of paper behind him, and with this tail floating in the
air, he danced or capered about, keeping time to the music, all the
others, girls as well as men, running after him with lighted tapers,
endeavouring to set this novel tail on fire; but so rapid or rather
jerky were his movements, that the paper would not catch fire from the
lights, and after a long chase, exciting the constant mirth of the
onlookers, he escaped triumphant, and burnt his tail to show it was
inflammable. After this, and as a wind up, one of the musicians—an
Italian, of course—honoured us, flavoured by some peculiar linguistic
embellishments, calculated to evoke an occasional smile, with first
‘Yankee Doodle,’ and afterwards with a still more uncommon version of
‘God save the Queen,’ upon which all the company, with the exception
(hardly commendable) of a few Americans present, rose to their feet,
and a choking feeling of home and of loyalty thrilled through us to
hear our national anthem, so sung by foreigners, and so far, it seemed,
after our wanderings, from our native land. With this the performance
terminated, and the collection began, and was evidently good. For it is
by means of a voluntary collection that these professional exertions
are usually recompensed. On one occasion, a conjurer, having made his
collection in the middle of his performance, brought round the plate a
second time, which was rather too much.
A more objectionable course to obtain remuneration has sometimes been
taken at Mentone, of asking the visitors to buy tickets for a raffle.
Of course, each visitor is expected to take at least one ticket
(costing usually, I think, 2 francs), and some take a good many,
especially when the tickets unsold are set up to a sort of absurd
auction, and people in a spirit of fun keep bidding by small amounts
against each other. Looking to the proximity of Mentone to Monaco, the
origin of the practice may be divined, and it is rather calculated
to foster the spirit of gambling which prevails, especially among
foreigners, although the things raffled for are necessarily worthless
trifles, offering a purely nominal value in exchange for the tickets of
the fortunate prize–holders. I presume it is done because it fetches
more money to the performers, although ostensibly to give the aspect
of not stooping to a collection. But as collections for themselves
are, twice a week at least, made abroad by clergymen of the English
Church by sending round the plate during service, one can little see
why a conjurer should be ashamed or consider it _infra dig._ to receive
payment in the same way.
* * * * *
The _entrée_, however, is not always _libre_. On one occasion, at
least, bills were sent round to different other hotels that a _matinée
musicale_ would be held in one of the Mentone Hotels—’_Entrée_, 6
francs _par personne_.’ In these cases visitors from other houses are
expected.
* * * * *
The guests themselves at the hotels and pensions frequently devise
amusement for the company. Sometimes it consists in charades, more
or less elaborately conducted, according to circumstances. They
are diverting, and create great excitement among the performers in
anticipation, realization, and retrospect. In some hotels, there is at
one end of a large room a little permanent stage expressly fitted up to
enable charades or plays to be performed.
At other times we have had Shakespeare readings, the different members
of the party having assigned to each, one or more of the characters
of the play; but the difficulty always was, by begging and borrowing,
I won’t say stealing, to procure a sufficient number of copies of the
play, so that each reader might have one. A handy copy of Shakespeare
is one of the books which those who go abroad for the winter may with
advantage take with them.
On another occasion, at Florence, we had a remarkably nice series of
miscellaneous readings by a gentleman of the company. But the most
elaborate performance, at least at a hotel, was one at Chateau d’Œx.
Here some Americans of the party arranged with showy dresses a very
successful performance of the play called ‘Popping the Question.’ It
was capitally acted, and we felt only sorry that the spectators were so
comparatively few, although, to increase the number, the performers had
invited their friends living in neighbouring pensions.
* * * * *
As I mention this last affair, it is impossible to omit in this
connection two grand entertainments we had at Mentone, in the beginning
of 1877, of a more public nature. These were two dramatic performances
by amateurs, drawn from among the hotel visitors, the leading spirit
being Captain Hartley, who was himself a highly–finished actor. They
were held in the large room of the _cercle_, or club–house, which has
a regular small stage at the one end, and is capable of accommodating
between 200 and 300 people, and was hired for the occasion. The
performers invited their friends, and so unexpectedly well did
they turn out, that the room on the first occasion was more than
filled—many, indeed, could not get within either sight or hearing. The
performance consisted of two pieces,—the first, ‘A Touch of Nature
makes the Whole World kin,’ and ‘Box and Cox.’ The plays were executed
to admiration. Nothing could have been better than the acting, although
it was painful to think that some of the actors were invalids, and were
evidently straining their powers too much, and I fear hurt themselves
by doing so, and by the labour of getting up their parts and attending
rehearsals. But so successful was the performance, that on 3d February
the amateurs held another _matinée_, on which occasion the ‘Porter’s
Knot’ was acted, which gave an equal amount of satisfaction to all who
could witness it. These entertainments were exclusively at the expense
of the amateurs. In the following season their success induced the
having two more, which met with equal applause.
On occasion of the first performance of all, the _Avenir_ (newspaper)
of Mentone congratulated the fair little town on its waking up from its
torpor in a leading article, in the course of which it said:
‘Nos sincères félicitations aux organisateurs de cette charmante fête.
Est–ce que Menton songerait enfin à s’amuser? Bravo, Messieurs!...
reveillez un peu cette ville que les autres se donnent tant de peine
à endormir. Egayez un peu cette riche colonie étrangère, veritable
fortune pour notre beau pays, il faut bien la choyer, l’amuser, et
surtout faire de sérieux sacrifices, pour la retenir éternellement
sur les bords de cette splendide Méditerranée sous les rayons de ce
bienfaisant soleil, sous nos citronniers en fleurs, sous notre beau
ciel bleu—la nature a tout fait pour eux ... à vous de compléter
l’œuvre, à vous de les distraire: concerts, bals, spectacles. Voilà
l’œuvre que vous devez accomplir. La matinée de lundi est un bien jolie
commencement, continuez!’
Attached to nearly all season places, as well as to others frequented
by visitors, there is a band of music, which during the season plays
in public so many times a day, or so many times a week. In some places
it plays twice or even three times a day. In Switzerland, which is
a great resort of the Germans, the music seems designed to promote
out–of–doors tippling, as the ground about the sheltering pavilion in
which the musicians play is dotted over with chairs and little tables,
at which these foreigners sit and imbibe and listen, or are supposed
to listen, to the strains of the music. Nay, I have been told that the
Germans also order beef–steaks and other solids, although long time
cannot have elapsed since the last meal at the hotels, or it will not
be long till the next meal–time arrives. If one should sit down on a
chair, a waiter or waitress immediately comes forward expecting an
order. I do not recollect having seen this custom prevailing anywhere
in France except at the Gardens in the Champs Elysée in Paris, where
professedly the music is given in connection with and to promote the
drink. In Switzerland one has sometimes to pay for the music in the
shape of a regular daily or weekly tax, which is stated in the hotel
bill is authorized to be levied, and which the visitor is bound to pay,
although he may have been deaf from his birth. We were required to
make such a payment at Ragatz at the Quellenhof Hotel, where the band
played morning and evening. At Interlachen, where we spent nine weeks,
I found it more advisable to pay for the season, and it cost me 20
francs, which was practically a payment by me towards the support of a
German drinking establishment, as I do not think during all the time I
was there I looked into the _Kursaal_ more than four or five times, and
that merely to see if any friend were there. It is unpleasant to those
who cannot drink in season and out of season, or who are not used to
public potation, to go to such places.
* * * * *
Not having had personal experience of life abroad in villas or
furnished rooms, I cannot say much upon this subject. At all season
places furnished villas abound, and apartments are to be had, the cost
of which necessarily depends upon the locality and the accommodation.
I see from the _Avenir de Menton_ of 12th December 1877, that one
house–agent advertised to have had then to let sixty–five villas in
Mentone, varying from four apartments, or _pièces_, as the French
term them, up to twenty–four, and ranging in price from 900 francs to
18,000 francs for the season. This list was published after previous
demands had been satisfied. How far those on the list may subsequently
have been taken up, I do not know; but the season was considered to
be a bad one, owing to the general dulness of trade, the continuance
of the Eastern War, and the uncertainty as to the state of matters in
France arising out of the position held by the governing Powers among
themselves. Perhaps something also was due to the fact that a good many
new houses had since last season been built, so that there was an
extra supply. The villas and apartments are all let for the season; the
owners will not let them for a shorter period, because if they were to
do so they would run a great risk of not letting them for the remainder
of the winter. However, in a dull season somewhat less than what is
asked may be taken, and after a house has stood empty for a time it may
be had at a reduction. The season at Mentone for so letting, I believe,
is nominally eight months, but in reality few people occupy the houses
more than five, or at most six months during the winter. During summer
months (from about the end of April) Mentone is deserted.
The cost per room seems to range from 200 francs to nearly 800 francs,
or about (taking five months’ occupation) from 10 to 40 francs per week
for each room. A small family house may be had for about from 4000
or 5000 francs, or from £150 to £200, the tenant obtaining nothing
but the rooms and furnishing. It is necessary for him to engage
servants; and I believe it is indispensable to have French servants
in addition to those the family taking the house may bring with them,
as English servants, not knowing the language, could not be a means
of communication with the natives. These French servants are a source
frequently of great annoyance to their employers. They demand a high
wage, and as they are not employed during the whole year, perhaps there
is some reason for it. A lady at Hyères considered herself particularly
fortunate, as no doubt she was, in getting a French servant at 45
francs per month, or at the rate of nearly £24 per year. The amount
asked, however, is, I believe, usually very much more. But this is a
small matter as compared with other evils; for these servants expect
to be employed to make the purchases for the house, and are, it seems,
greatly chagrined if they learn that this duty will not fall within
their province. The lady of the house may resolve to make her own
purchases: she cannot, however, always do so, and finds that she has
generally to devolve the work on one of the domestics; and hence, from
what I have heard, she often finds that the expense of housekeeping
becomes enormously heavy. This may probably arise from the shopkeepers
charging in excess in order to afford a commission to the servants.
One lady in Mentone, with a family of three young children, who had
two English and two French servants, told me it cost her £16 for a
single week of housekeeping, though it is possible this may have been
an extraordinary week. But this is not all, for the family are exposed,
unless they have very reliable servants, to pillage by pilfering and
otherwise. The same lady had no doubt there were large quantities of
bread and other eatables given away by the servants to their friends,
or disposed of, as she could not possibly account otherwise for the
quantities which were said to be consumed. These pilferings, however,
were not confined to eatables. In _six weeks_, on the house–agent going
over the inventory, he made out a bill for 98 francs for breakages.
This included 30 plates, 3 teapots, and I know not what else beside.
Of course, it was incredible that such an amount of breakage could
have taken place even had Caleb Balderstone been in the house, and in
frequent fry. There were no traces of it; there had been no report
of it; the English servants had never seen it. It was clear that the
articles had been appropriated or given away to friends. Such pilfering
(of which another friend also complained) may not be the rule—possibly
even is the exception; and one friend told me they had most honest
native servants. It is well, however, to know that it is a possibility
to be guarded against. One of the best safeguards is, besides being
very particular as to the character of those engaged, to require them
to sleep in the house. If they do not sleep in the house, for which
there may not be sufficient room, they ought not to be allowed to bring
baskets with them when they come in the morning, to take away when they
leave at night.
One curious expense attendant upon the taking of a villa, is a charge
which was made by a house–agent at Mentone (I do not know if it be
universal) for making out the inventory of furniture. He charged the
tenant 2½ per cent, upon the rent; say, if the rent were £200, £5 for
doing so was charged against the tenant. This ought to be a proper
charge against the landlord exclusively, but no doubt the landlord
suffered a similar charge.
* * * * *
For two or three persons, it is upon calculation of the cost much less
expensive, and in every respect more desirable, to take quarters in a
hotel, where, if a servant be brought, the usual charge for pension
for her or him is 5 francs, or at most 6 francs, and occasionally,
though rarely, 4 francs per day. But in the case of a large family, a
villa is less expensive and more convenient, especially if the children
be young, though it may require the family to be vigilant in looking
sharply after their foreign domestics.
* * * * *
While these foreign servants are not always trustworthy, I must add
this, that we have found no occasion whatever in France or Switzerland
to complain of dishonesty among any of the domestics in any of the
numerous hotels in which we have been. We have had our things lying
openly about, and have never missed a single article, nor have we heard
of any other person suffering loss in this way.
The observation may not perhaps apply so thoroughly to Italy. So
much is heard of the petty thievery which prevails in that country,
especially in the southern portions of it, that it is by no means
proper to expose oneself more than can be helped to lose in this
manner; and we were more than usually careful, while in Italy, not to
throw temptation in the way. At one house we missed two articles, viz.
two pairs of scissors, and could not but suspect that they had been
appropriated. It is, however, I suppose, rather the railway men and the
professed thieves whom people have most to fear in Italy. One hears
every now and then of boxes being opened during railway transit and
contents taken, although this may be only in the case of luggage sent
by goods train, which in Italy should never be done. The thievery is so
open in Naples and surrounding places, that we dared not leave anything
exposed in a carriage. Nay, a lady told me that a thief had even the
audacity, before her very eyes, to lift a bag out of the carriage in
which she was sitting.
III.
_LOCAL MEANS OF CONVEYANCE._
I HAPPEN to have kept the billet of a Parisian cabman, on which I find
the number is 8973. I believe I have seen _voitures_ in Paris bearing a
number higher than 10,000. In all probability, however, there is not a
licensed carriage to represent each unit of this apparent grand total.
When, after many adventures and a long struggle, old age overtakes the
_voiture_, and a sudden jolt sends it to smash, a pious regard may
preserve the number to its shade; while the new vehicle, its successor,
may just be added on to the tail of the list. But be this as it may,
there is no lack of carriages of all sorts in all Continental towns.
* * * * *
Elegant private equipages are to be seen in Paris and other parts of
France. These are often jobbed by English people. At Nice the charge
for a carriage, horses, and man is £30 per month. But Nice is a
notoriously expensive place, and I doubt not that in other towns of
France the charge is greatly less. Dr. Johnson (p. 67) states that
carriages in Pau were to be had, with pair of horses and driver, at £10
to £12 per month. His book, however, was written in 1857, and possibly
the charge since that time has been raised.
But it is among the Italians, I think, that the desire appears more
manifested for a good turn–out. In such large towns as Genoa, Rome,
or Naples, one sees hundreds of beautiful carriages and fine horses.
In fact, it would appear that in Italy every woman aspiring to be
considered a lady must, at whatever sacrifice of other comforts,
drive her carriage and pair with liveried coachman and man–servant.
The Italians seem to consider that it is not _comme il faut_ for a
lady to be seen walking,—for which, indeed, the climate is not much
suited,—and they are rather surprised at observing English ladies going
so much about on their own feet. The public vehicles are also of so
inferior a description, that one can scarcely wonder at a resident lady
being ashamed to be seen in them. I fancy, too, that the expense is
not so great as with ourselves. Men–servants’ wages must certainly be
considerably less, and crops of hay are so abundant, while agricultural
labour is so miserably recompensed that the expense of feeding is, no
doubt, also much less than at home. Moreover, horse flesh would appear
to be greatly cheaper in Italy than with ourselves. At Rome I asked
the driver of the carriage in which we went to Tivoli what might be
the cost of such a pair of horses as he was driving. They were poor
hacks, although they went well. He said about 400 francs, or about £16.
I pointed to a handsome pair of horses standing in a private carriage
upon one of the streets of Rome, and asked him what they would cost. He
said from 1000 to 2000 francs, or from £40 to £80. If this information
can be relied on, horse flesh must be cheap enough in Italy. I am not
sufficiently skilled in the subject to say whether the breeds are equal
to our own, though I doubt it; but they look very handsome animals, and
the Italians are careful to allow their tails to grow so as often even
to sweep the ground; and in this way the natural grace and beauty of
the horse is preserved, while it retains the protection it has received
from nature against the attacks of flies, which are a great source of
torment in some places.
The cart horses in France are sometimes fine, strong–looking beasts,
but are scarcely equal to the more powerful breeds of Britain, although
I think they are made to draw heavier loads; and these poor horses do
discharge their duty most heroically in spite of the brutal treatment
they often receive.
* * * * *
But present observation has rather to do with cabs or carriages which
ply for hire.
In France, great variety of carriage is to be had. In such places as
Biarritz, Nice, or Mentone, there are many elegant landaus having
nearly all the appearance of private carriages, and, no doubt, most
of them have been quite recently in private occupation. They are kept
in good order and freshly painted, and are the best class. From them
there is a descent to various kinds of smaller and inferior _voitures_.
The close kind is generally of a very shaky, antiquated construction;
although in some places, such as Lyons and Cannes, there is a kind of
brougham plying for hire of a better quality, narrow and confined,
holding two only, and even two with a squeeze, although some of them
(to be seen in Paris) have also a folding down seat for a child. Other
carriages have a hood. In Paris, where people are exposed to sudden
showers of rain, the one–horse open carriages have an extraordinary
huge kind of hood which can be promptly raised, but when turned over,
falls so low as almost to extinguish the occupant and to exclude his
view; but even then, and with a leathern apron drawn up over the knees,
I have found in a storm that adequate protection against rain is not
secured. One of the nicest of light vehicles in use is a kind of basket
carriage, seated for four, or for two with a _vis–à–vis_ folding down
seat for one or for two more behind the box, the box seat sometimes
holding a fifth, and occasionally there is a light miniature rumble
behind holding another. These are drawn for the most part by a pair
of smart horses, remarkably small, akin to the active little Exmoor
ponies.
The horses always go most willingly, and the drivers delight in urging
them at top speed. Regardless of consequences, they dash down a hill in
a way which would make an English coachy’s hair stand on end, and like
a cannon ball through a crowd, without halting or swerving from their
course, expecting the crowd to scatter right and left to make way for
them. This is all done to the noise of a horrid ear–splitting cracking
of the whip. The driver cracks his whip, and considers that having done
so, he is discharged of responsibility, and that it is the pedestrian’s
own fault if he be run over; just as a golfer considers that when he
has cried ‘faar’ before striking his ball, it is the fault of the
person struck that he has not got promptly enough out of the way. This
cracking of the whip goes on incessantly while the man is with his
horse, and even when without, and seems indulged in most frequently
from a boyish love of making the odious noise.
There is great variety in these cracks. The crack of the heavy carter’s
whip differs from that of the coachman’s lighter one. There is the
single crack, the double or back and fore crack, and the multiple
crack, this last being like the dancing noise produced by those
alarming crackers placed by mischievous urchins on a Queen’s Birthday
night under the garments of terrified young women. There is the
encouraging crack, supposed to cheer the horse on his way; the crack
direct, when the driver applies the lash; the practising crack, when he
practises for perfection in this ravishing art; the thoughtless crack,
when done in vacancy from mere force of habit; the warning crack, when
he wishes pedestrians to yield the smooth part of the road, that he may
avoid the rough, or simply that he, the dominant power, may maintain
majestically his straight undeviating course; the angry crack, when
the supposed humble pedestrian, being an Englishman, disregards the
warning crack, thinking that he has as good a right or a better to
pursue his way, there being room enough to pass by making a slight
deviation from the straight; the annunciating crack, particularly
affected by town omnibuses to intimate their approach; and the crack
jubilant, employed by the hotel omnibuses when, having bagged a man,
the driver thus expends all his bottled–up rapture and announces the
joyful event on nearing the door of his hotel. The crack may indicate
a cracked driver or a crack one, according as it is the passers–by
or the driver himself who forms the opinion, and it is an obviously
enviable accomplishment which many can manage with their left hand. The
poor horses are expected to disregard all cracks but the crack direct,
and to appearance do so; but I can’t help thinking that the horrid din
is to the animal very much what the buzz of the mosquito is to man,
not a _malum in se_, but a sound which proclaims the existence of a
torment which at any moment may descend upon its hide. The singular
thing, too, is that this noise does not seem to disturb the equanimity
either of the driver’s own horse or of the other passing horses. With
our own high–spirited horses, the mere wag of the whip will make them
frantic, and I believe there would be no holding in English horses in a
Continental town. Whether it be that the foreign horses are not so high
metalled, or get used to the noise, as horses do to passing trains, I
do not know, but to the walkers along the streets it is an intolerable
nuisance; nor is it altogether without its dangers, as on one occasion
a lady of our party all but got her eye struck by a flying lash. The
same sort of cracking goes on in Italy; but I noticed that in Florence
and Rome, and particularly the latter city, the drivers did it very
seldom. Probably to do so was against some police regulation, as from
the large number of vehicles with which the streets of Rome are filled,
the noise would be deafening, and might even be dangerous.
* * * * *
I was at first inclined to think that the Italian coachmen are kinder
to their horses than the French or Swiss. It was long ere I saw an
Italian behaving savagely to his horse; but I have observed it, and
been informed by others of the cruel treatment they have seen practised
by Italians. I have seen men behaving most savagely to their horses
in France and Switzerland. For example, I have frequently seen a
carter, or man in charge of a horse or donkey, when he wished it to
move on, instead of quietly speaking to it, as even an English carter
would, take the butt end of his heavy whip and lay heavily on the
poor animal’s back, or even give it a violent kick. The carters lade
their carts very heavily, and often—I might even say always—beyond the
strength of the horse. I have observed a poor horse struggling with all
his might to pull the improper load up a hill, the carter encouraging
it by the whip all the time. Several times I could not resist speaking
to the men about their conduct. On one occasion, at Cannes, I saw a
horse, after having struggled to the utmost of his strength with a
load twice as heavy as it ought to have been (the bystanders only
looking on and giving it no aid), and remaining willing but helpless
to do more, when the carter took the narrow end of his heavy whip,
and came down twice with his whole force with the heavy–loaded butt
end on his horse’s head. Ere he could repeat the villanous stroke, I
rushed forward, arrested his hand, and told him, in the best French I
could muster, what a brute I thought him to be. But it is not easy to
give vent to one’s indignation in a foreign tongue. The fellow ought
to have been prosecuted, and there does exist in France a Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; but policemen as well as others,
I suspect, are as callous to such offences as our own policemen are
to the destruction by boys of our meadow or park trees. Cruelty to
a horse, however, often consists in little aggravating acts which a
prosecution might fail to reach. I have often seen a coachman waiting
at a stand, or at a door, and, having idle hands, mischievously proceed
to touch up his horses for doing nothing—in short, to vent his own
irritation at his idleness upon the poor dumb animals; and then, when
they began to caper because of the whip, the whip was again applied
because of the caper. However, I am afraid this is an evil habit which
is not seldom to be witnessed in our own country. Another method
abroad of torturing the horse is by the use of a bearing rein strapped
up to the high and heavy saddle or collar borne by the cart horses,
which from its weight is also of itself an infliction. But so long as
Liverpool dray horses are so tortured, we cannot reasonably complain
of bearing reins as a foreign peculiarity. A more extraordinary and
hardly credible kind of torture a lady told me she had witnessed was
in the passing of a strap or rope through the skin of the horse,
compelling him to move on to avoid or lessen the pain so produced. I
would fain believe she had been mistaken, but she was one on whose
relation I could rely, and whose capacity for observing could scarcely
be questioned.
* * * * *
The Italian carriages for hire are very inferior to the French. At
Naples they are of the roughest possible kind—open little phaetons made
of coarse wood, at some remote period having enjoyed a coat of paint,
and exhibiting a barely decent seat for two, and a little folding seat
for a third. The Roman carriages are similarly constructed, but a
shade better. The drivers in Naples and its vicinity are, as regards
person and clothes, the dirtiest–looking ragamuffins. One shrinks to
come in contact with them. In Rome, on the other hand, the drivers are
generally a respectable–looking class, and they wear a black glazed hat
and red cloth waistcoat. The most stylish of coachmen we have seen are
those at Biarritz, where they frequently mount a grand blue broidered
jacket with scarlet facings; but this grandeur has to be paid for.
* * * * *
At Castellamare and the district round about in the Bay of Naples, and
elsewhere in the south of Italy, the horses’ heads are decorated with
long pheasant feathers, which give them a jaunty look; while in most
places the generality of horses have fastened to their collars a string
of small bells which keep a continual lively jingle,—genial, doubtless,
to the animals,—and are as pleasant as the cracking of whips is odious.
About Sorrento, the carriages are often drawn by three horses abreast,
three being charged the same as for two. It seems a waste of power, the
only explanation given for which was that the horses are not strong.
Whatever may be the case in this respect, the horses in Italy always go
with the greatest spirit, never seeming to require the lash. I fancy
that the jingle of the bells operates as a stimulant. It was very
cheery, sitting in our parlour at Sorrento, to hear every now and then
the jingle of the bells announcing an arrival or a departure.
* * * * *
Carriage fares for drives about town are moderate almost everywhere.
They are more in France than in Italy. Bædeker generally states in his
guide–books what the fares are at each town. Although on the whole
correct, they are not always to be relied on, probably because of
alterations on the tariffs. Sometimes a board or bill of the tariffs is
hung up in the carriage, and in some places, such as Paris, the driver
is obliged to give the hirer his number on a ticket which specifies the
fares. In Paris a one–horse carriage is charged 1·85 per course and
2·50 per hour during the day, and 2·50 and 3 francs respectively during
_nuit_, or the hours of darkness. A little more is charged if the
_voiture_ be taken from the _remise_, that is, the stables. There do
not appear to be two–horse carriages plying for hire upon the streets
of Paris. When one is wanted, it must be sent for to the stables, and I
believe that the charge is heavy. Fares in Paris, however, are higher
than in the provinces. At Lyons the fare per course is 1·25; if taken
by the hour, it is only 1½ francs per hour in the city, and the same
at Pau, but at Mentone and elsewhere fares are rather more. A large
carriage with two horses is at Mentone 1·75 per course and 3·50 per
hour during the day, and 2 francs and 3·75 respectively during _nuit_.
A one–horse carriage is 1·25 per course and 2·50 per hour during the
day, and 25 centimes more after dark. If, however, one has to ascend
a height in a town, he is sure to have to pay extra. For example, we
were charged extra for ascending Fourvières at Lyons, and the Chateau
at Nice, although driving per hour. If there be more than a single
place to go to, it is always cheaper to take the carriage by the hour.
If when driving by the course a stoppage be made by the way, it is not
unusual to charge as for two courses. At the same time, Continental
drivers are quite up to the trick of English coachmen, when put upon
hour–driving, of crawling along. We were somewhat amused at Sorrento
(where the horses are invariably put upon full speed), upon taking a
carriage by the hour to Massa, a few miles off, to see how the man
leisurely walked his horse the whole way. Nor, in this instance, did we
grudge it; because the scenery was so lovely that we had full time to
enjoy it, and the rapid whisking through it, which otherwise would have
taken place, would have given us but a passing glimpse.
In Italy the cab fares are exceedingly moderate. For instance, at
Genoa, Florence, and Rome, the drive per course is only 80 centessimi
(8d.). At Rome, for every person beyond two, 20 centimes (2d.)
additional is payable. The charge per hour is 1·50. At Naples, fares
are even more moderate. The course, according to Bædeker, is 60
cen
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