Chapter I: How I Ate Bouillabaisse at Marseilles

A mad holiday scheme — Prophecies of evil — Paris after rain — In the “Rapide” — Marseilles — A dish of Bouillabaisse, and a disillusionment.

“Go to Tunis!” cried all my friends, when I intimated my intention of taking a holiday in that little-visited district of Northern Africa; “why, you must be mad to think of it.” And then from each in succession there was poured forth a catalogue of the dangers, difficulties, and hardships which I was certain to encounter if I ventured into the dominions of the Bey. “Do you not know that the country is in a state of war; that a French army is on the point of occupying the city of Tunis itself; that the Arabs are murdering every European they can catch, and the French, not to be behind them, are doing the same by the Arabs?” “Have you read those horrible revelations about the prevalence of typhoid fever in Tunis? They say they are dying there by hundreds daily.” “Do you know what the African climate is? Have you any conception of the heat of an African sun?” These were but specimens of the admonitions poured into my unheeding ears by my kind friends.

The truth was that my determination to visit Tunis dated from a lovely day in October, 1880, when, sailing in the good ship _Sidon_ towards Malta, I had the entrance to the Gulf of Tunis pointed out to me. Until that moment, although I had often looked at the place upon the map, I had never thoroughly realized its nearness to the shores of Europe. Tunis had seemed like Morocco or Timbuctoo or Lake N’gami, a mysterious spot shut out from the civilized world. But when I saw that this land in which the manners and customs of the East are to be found to-day in a degree of perfection which is unknown at Stamboul, was within four-and-twenty hours’ sail of Malta, I inwardly resolved that, if the Fates were propitious, I should make it the goal of my next year’s holiday.

Between that trip in the _Sidon_ and my voyage in the following year a good many things had happened at Tunis. M. Roustan, aided by his accomplices in Paris, had planned and carried out the greatest act of international brigandage upon record, and unoffending Tunis had been violently seized by the French army in the name of a gang of mercenary conspirators. The hot-blooded Arabs and Moors of the regency had not been slow to resent the usurpation of the infidel, and a bitter war had begun. It was in the very midst of this war, on the day on which a French army entered the city of Tunis itself and made themselves masters of the capital, that I set off on my journey from a Yorkshire town to an African State. I propose to tell the story of that journey in some detail in these pages; for it was one of singular interest, albeit accompanied by more than one unpleasant adventure, and attended at times by an amount of discomfort that often caused me to smile grimly at the notion that I was engaged upon a pleasure excursion. In describing my experiences, I shall quote largely from the diary which I kept from day to day all through my journey; but if at any moment I feel inclined to dwell upon a particular scene or incident, the reader will forgive me if I lay my diary aside, and enlarge upon the rough notes made upon the spot. I can promise him that whether in quoting from my diary or in giving a detailed description of the various scenes I witnessed—some of which were of more than ordinary interest—I shall do my best to keep most strictly within the limits of the truth.

Circumstances not unconnected with an important incident in the political history of Leeds reduced the amount of time at my disposal for preparation for the journey to a few hours. Still the time was sufficient to enable me to lay in the stock of light summer clothing that I required. I shall not soon forget the amazed look of a certain shop-keeper in Briggate, when on a stormy October day I ransacked his stores in search of his lightest neck-ties, handkerchiefs, stockings, and hats, such as, in his opinion, could only be worn in the hottest days of an English summer. A revolver, a box of quinine pills, and some other simple medicines, a portable filter, a very large bottle of vermin powder, and a goodly flask filled with the finest brandy formed part of my equipment. The brandy, like the medicine, was carefully set aside for an emergency; not to be used, in fact, save in case of illness. In due time the emergency arrived, and I then found the provision I had made for it invaluable.

_Wednesday, October 12th_, 1881.—There is always something to be done at the last moment. Starting from my hotel this morning to catch the tidal express at Charing Cross, I made the melancholy discovery that I had lost the key of one of my portmanteaus, which accordingly could not be locked. I knew what a railway journey from London to Marseilles with an open portmanteau portended, and not wishing to lose half my effects before I reached the shores of the Mediterranean, I set about procuring another key. There was very little time to spare. I dashed into one shop after another in the Strand, and finally, just in the nick of time, got what I wanted. There was a great crowd of passengers at Charing Cross, and the usual bustle and confusion in getting the baggage registered. But at eleven o’clock punctually the train started to run through the beautiful country between London and Folkestone. The day was dull and raw, and the southern suburbs of the metropolis looked melancholy enough in that damp atmosphere; but one’s eye rested lovingly upon them, as each successive name at the wayside stations recalled some happy incident in “the days that are no more.” My travelling companions to Folkestone were a returned Australian, who had left England when he was two years old, and an Irish gentleman and his pretty sisters. “Remember, girls,” said the Irishman as we drew near to Folkestone, “that sea-sickness is not an affection of the stomach but of the brain. All you have to do is to bear that fact in mind, and there will be no fear of your being sea-sick.”

Folkestone was in gala dress when we reached the place. In spite of the wind and rain the little town was crowded; bands of music were playing, flags were flying, and cannon were being fired. The Prince and Princess of Wales were laying the foundation-stone of some new docks, so that our last look at England showed us a loyal population yelling themselves hoarse round the carriage in which rode the heir-apparent and his pretty wife. Before we got clear of Folkestone harbour the wind had increased to half a gale, and no sooner were we outside than our wretched little boat began to pitch and roll horribly. Then followed the usual scene. There were 220 passengers on board, and before long fully 200 of these were groaning and writhing in the agonies of sea-sickness. Even those who were proof against the malady—among whom I could happily count myself—had an uncomfortable time of it, for the vessel shipped an immense quantity of water. I had, of course, packed my waterproof in one of my portmanteaus, so that I was quickly drenched to the skin, my through ticket to Marseilles being reduced to something like a state of pulp. Among the earliest of those who succumbed to the sea was my Irish friend of the railway train. Either there was a flaw in his theory concerning sea-sickness, or, like certain other preachers, he expounded doctrines which his own faith was too weak to enable him to accept. The grey, storm-laden sky, the broken foam-topped waves, and the labouring boat, wrapped in its cloud of spray, made up a fine picture; but the groans of misery all around me, and the sights and smells of the vessel detracted greatly from one’s enjoyment of it.

After a passage of nearly three hours’ duration we reached Boulogne. Some of the passengers had suffered so much that they decided to stay there for the night, but, of course, most of us went on to Paris, after paying the usual exorbitant tax to the keeper of the _buffet_. We had a curious assemblage in the carriage in which I found a seat. There was a shabbily-dressed old gentleman who persistently smoked a black wooden pipe, and whom I eventually discovered to be an English general on his way to his post in India, another Indian going out to manage a newly-discovered gold-mine, a smart young fellow bound for China, myself for Tunis, and three pleasure-seeking tourists intent upon Paris and the Rhine, one of whom I recognized as an old schoolfellow of my own. We reached Paris at 10.30 instead of eight. So much for Sir Edward Watkin’s performances as compared with his promises. After a long detention at the Custom House, where, however, the usual civility was shown to us, I and the two travellers to India found quarters in the Grand Hotel, the familiar courtyard of which I find is now lighted by electricity.

_Thursday, October 13th_.—A beautiful morning after yesterday’s rain and storm. Paris was looking her best when I strolled out after my first breakfast, to secure a place in the sleeping-car for Marseilles and a berth for Tunis. The sleeping-car, alas! is not yet on the line. “It will be put on to-morrow.” I always find when I miss a good thing of this sort that if I could only wait till to-morrow it would be all right. Among misleading proverbs there is none that more urgently requires revision than that about “the early bird.” Or perhaps I am one of those unfortunates who are doomed by circumstances to take the worm’s view of the situation. I do not find there will be any difficulty in getting a berth in to-morrow’s steamer from Marseilles to Tunis. “Monsieur, nobody goes there at present,” says the clerk in the office of the Transatlantic Company when I inquire upon the subject. I drive up the beautiful Champs Elysées to call upon the L.’s. How charming Paris looks to-day in the bright sunshine, with the trees just beginning to assume the tints of autumn! One feels all the temptations of the spot strong upon one, and there is an urgent desire to inquire whether a later boat might not be just as suitable as to-morrow’s for the voyage.

After luncheon, during which Mrs. L. expresses her horror at the notion of any one visiting Tunis for pleasure at this moment, I go to the Ministry of War, accompanied by L., in order to ascertain if any special permission is needed to get into Tunis. A very polite official distinctly assures me that nothing of the kind is required, and that I can not only enter Tunis, but travel about in it as freely as I please. “Or rather as the Arabs please,” I think of suggesting; but upon second thoughts it strikes me that the joke might not be appreciated. Before I tear myself away from the flesh-pots of Egypt, I must have one good dinner at least; so we betake ourselves to Champeau’s, close to the Bourse, and there indulge in those “luxuries of the Salt Market,” which I cannot hope to carry with me across the Mediterranean. The dinner, which is begun with oysters, is fairly good; but the bill for it is unfairly big. This, however, is nothing to what I have to face at the Grand Hotel, where I am charged thirteen francs for my room on the fourth floor! As I sit smoking a last cigar in the well-known courtyard, meditating upon merry parties I have joined in here in former days, the evening papers bring me the announcement of Parnell’s arrest. At that moment my travelling companion of yesterday, General A———, passes me, and I tell him the news. “Hurrah!” shouts the general, regardless of the fashionable crowd around him, and his battered hat goes spinning up into the air in token of his joy.

_Friday, Oct. 14th._—A night in a French train is always a painful penance, and my journey from Paris to Marseilles has been no exception to the rule. We started from the Lyons Railway Station at twenty minutes past seven last night. Of course the carriage was full. Happily, I succeeded in getting a seat facing one of the windows, and I was thus able to ensure the admittance of a little fresh air. Presently, as we stole onwards during the raw, dark night I saw that the window at the other end of the carriage was also open. I blessed my fate which had sent me as a travelling companion a Frenchman who actually liked fresh air. I was still marvelling over the mystery of the existence of such a being when the gentleman who was keeping guard over that window, addressed me in excellent English. “Oh,” I said, “you’re an Englishman, are you? That explains your open window. But why did you speak to me in French before?” “Because I thought you were a Frenchman; and it was only when I saw _your_ open window that I knew you weren’t.” Needless to say, the companionship of my new acquaintance, Captain A———, of the Carlton Club, beguiled the journey, at any rate during its later stages, when we had shaken off the somnolence of night.

It was quite cold towards dawn. When day broke we found ourselves running through something which bore a suspicious resemblance to an English November fog. And this was in Valence! Clearly the “sunny south” had not yet been reached. At Avignon, however, the fog had cleared off, and I could get a good view of the famous ruins and admire the beautiful situation of the town. From Avignon to Marseilles the sun became hotter and ever hotter. The scenery on either side of the line reminded me much of bits of Malta. There was the same scanty covering of earth upon the white chalk-like rocks, and the same semi-tropical vegetation. At last Marseilles itself was reached, about an hour and a half behind time. Here it was as hot and as glaring as on that day when the story of “Little Dorrit” began, goodness knows how many years ago. I had some trouble in getting my baggage out of the train; but I had at the same time occasion to admire the courtesy and good arrangements of the railway officials. When my portmanteaus had been placed in the cab, an inspector asked me where I wished to be driven to, and then handed me a printed paper on which he had filled up the amount to which the cabman was entitled! I wonder when the unlucky foreigner arriving in our beloved London will meet with a similar attention.

Marseilles is much more picturesquely situated than I had expected. It lies at the bottom of a fine bay, with jutting promontories of high rocks running out into the Mediterranean on either side. Behind it is a range of barren hills in the form of an amphitheatre. The glare of white from the city and the surrounding country is positively painful. As for the town itself, it reminded me in one part of Glasgow—Glasgow with an Italian sky overhead!—in another part of Paris, and in a third of Syra. It seems, indeed, to present a curious admixture of different styles of street architecture; but the prevailing type is decidedly Oriental. As I drove through the glaring streets down to the dock where my steamer for Tunis lay, I saw the _lazzaroni_ lying sleeping in the noon-day sun, and, among curious or unfamiliar spectacles, I had time to observe the professional letter-writer in the Market-square, to whom a girl was whispering some message of love or intrigue. It was delightful on reaching the steamboat, a splendid Glasgow-built vessel, belonging to the Transatlantic Company, to be able to indulge in a bath and a change of linen. After that, as much refreshed as though I had been in bed for the traditional eight hours, I set forth to keep rendezvous with my travelling acquaintance, Captain A———, at the Maison Dorée, in order that we might together partake of Bouillabaisse.

Do you know what Bouillabaisse is, good reader? Possibly not; and yet I can hardly suppose that you are ignorant of the name of this wonderful dish. It has as high a place in English literature as the roast pig immortalized by Charles Lamb. Has not Thackeray taken it as a title of his most beautiful poem? You must have read that noble Ballad of Bouillabaisse, and having read you can never have forgotten it.

A street there is in Paris famous,

For which no rhyme our language yields,

Rue Neuve de Petits Champs its name is—

The New Street of the Little Fields.

And here’s an inn, not rich and splendid,

But still in comfortable case;

The which in youth I oft attended,

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

Ever since I first read those immortal lines, I had been longing for the chance of eating Bouillabaisse. I could no longer do so in “the New Street of the Little Fields,” for Terré’s Tavern has disappeared from the surface of the earth. But I knew that Marseilles was the headquarters of Bouillabaisse, the spot where alone it can be eaten in perfection; and so I waited for the opportunity which had now at last arrived.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—

A sort of soup or broth, or brew,

Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes

That Greenwich never could outdo;

Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace.

So sings Thackeray. A———, who, like myself, had never tasted the dish before, quoted the lines to me with enthusiasm, and we prepared ourselves for a wondrous treat as we sat in that cool, shady best dining-room of the Maison Dorée, looking out through the green Venetian blinds upon the hot and crowded Southern street. Alas! for disillusionment. When the Bouillabaisse appeared we attacked it eagerly. It was a thick sort of stew, in which there were many fishes, chiefly of the bony, spiky description, a considerable quantity of red pepper, saffron, and garlic, and an inordinate amount of bread.

A——— was the first to succumb. “I don’t care for it,” he said, pushing his plate away, and gulping down a goblet of Burgundy. If I had spoken the truth, I should have made the same admission; but loyalty to my great Master kept me silent. Only for a minute or two, however. With profound thankfulness I recognized the fact that my plate was empty, and eagerly declined the invitation of the waiter to accept of more. And this dismal fish curry was the far-famed Bouillabaisse! Thackeray must have been more _gourmand_ than _gourmet_ if he really liked it. But I consoled myself with the thought that though Bouillabaisse might not be worth eating, nothing could affect the charm of the immortal ballad, and whilst I waited for the next course I quoted, quite inappropriately, a few more lines from it:—

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!

I mind me of a time that’s gone,

When here I’d sit as now I’m sitting,

In this same place—but not alone.

I had got so far in my sentimental rambling when a voice I recognized fell upon my ear. I looked up, and lo! at the next table sat a man whom I had last seen standing in front of the Treasury Bench in the House of Commons, Sir Charles Dilke, the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. And he, too, was making believe to eat Bouillabaisse at the Maison Dorée at Marseilles. I hope he liked it.