African and European Addresses | Page 2

is situated on that fine thoroughfare, the Rue de Cannebière,
which the proud and untravelled native devoutly believes to be the
finest street in the world; that it possesses a dining-room of gilded and
painted repoussé work so elaborate and wonderful that it surely must
be intended to represent a tinsmith's dream of heaven; that its concierge
is the most impressive human being on earth except Ludwig von
Kampf (whom I have never seen); that its head waiter is sadder and
more elderly and forgiving than any other head waiter; and that its
hushed and cathedral atmosphere has been undisturbed through
immemorial years. That is to be expected; and elsewhere to be
duplicated in greater or lesser degree. Nor in the lofty courtyard, or the
equally lofty halls and reading-rooms, is there ever much bustle and

movement. People sit quietly, or move with circumspection. Servants
glide. The fall of a book or teaspoon, the sudden closing of a door, are
events to be remarked. Once a day, however, a huge gong sounds, the
glass doors of the inner courtyard are thrown open with a flourish, and
enters the huge bus fairly among those peacefully sitting at the tables,
horses' hoofs striking fire, long lash-cracking volleys, wheels roaring
amid hollow reverberations. From the interior of this bus emerge
people; and from the top, by means of a strangely-constructed hooked
ladder, are decanted boxes, trunks, and appurtenances of various sorts.
In these people, and in these boxes, trunks, and appurtenances, are the
real interest of the Grand Hôtel du Louvre et de la Paix of the
marvellous Rue Cannebière of Marseilles.
For at Marseilles land ships, many ships, from all the scattered ends of
the earth; and from Marseilles depart trains for the North, where is
home, or the way home for many peoples. And since the arrival of
ships is uncertain, and the departure of trains fixed, it follows that
everybody descends for a little or greater period at the Grand Hôtel du
Louvre et de la Paix.
They come lean and quiet and a little yellow from hard climates, with
the names of strange places on their lips, and they speak familiarly of
far-off things. Their clothes are generally of ancient cut, and the
wrinkles and camphor aroma of a long packing away are yet discernible.
Often they are still wearing sun helmets or double terai hats, pending a
descent on a Piccadilly hatter two days hence. They move slowly and
languidly; the ordinary piercing and dominant English enunciation has
fallen to modulation; their eyes, while observant and alert, look tired. It
is as though the far countries have sucked something from the pith of
them in exchange for great experiences that nevertheless seem of little
value; as though these men, having met at last face to face the ultimate
of what the earth has to offer in the way of danger, hardship, difficulty,
and the things that try men's souls, having unexpectedly found them all
to fall short of both the importance and the final significance with
which human-kind has always invested them, were now just a little at a
loss. Therefore they stretch their long, lean frames in the wicker chairs,
they sip the long drinks at their elbows, puff slowly at their long, lean

cheroots, and talk spasmodically in short sentences.
Of quite a different type are those going out--young fellows full of
northern health and energy, full of the eagerness of anticipation, full of
romance skilfully concealed, self-certain, authoritative, clear voiced.
Their exit from the bus is followed by a rain of hold-alls, bags, new tin
boxes, new gun cases, all lettered freshly--an enormous kit doomed to
diminution. They overflow the place, ebb towards their respective
rooms; return scrubbed and ruddy, correctly clad, correctly unconscious
of everybody else; sink into more wicker chairs. The quiet brown and
yellow men continue to puff at their cheroots, quite eclipsed. After a
time one of them picks up his battered old sun helmet and goes out into
the street. The eyes of the newcomers follow him. They fall silent; and
their eyes, under cover of pulled moustache, furtively glance towards
the lean man's companions. Then on that office falls a great silence,
broken only by the occasional rare remarks of the quiet men with the
cheroots. The youngsters are listening with all their ears, though from
their appearance no one would suspect that fact. Not a syllable escapes
them. These quiet men have been there; they have seen with their own
eyes; their lightest word is saturated with the mystery and romance of
the unknown. Their easy, matter-of-fact, everyday knowledge is richly
wonderful. It would seem natural for these young-young men to
question these old-young men of that which they desire so ardently to
know; but that isn't done, you know.