Free Sample (Dieppe)

In 1776 a "maison de santé" (literally house of health) was founded in Dieppe, inspired by the new English fashion for sea-bathing. The Duchesse de Berry (not to be confused with Duchesse du Barry, a popular brand of tinned foie gras), brought her Parisian friends here in 1824 and introduced them to the scandalous pleasures of skinny-dipping.
During the 19th century, aided by the new railway links to the capital, Dieppe became a fashionable spa town (less than 5 hours from the capital!). Twenty trains a day ferried the new breed of tourist between Paris and Dieppe. John Murray's Handbook describes the enchanting, not to say surreal scene: "A series of little huts are erected at he sea-side, from which ladies issue in robes resembling those of nuns, and gentlemen in wide trousers, and thus bathe in public. Ladies are assisted by male dippers appointed for this service, if they require their aid."
These dippers were presumably the equivalent of today's personal trainers or personal shoppers - the sort of athletic and charming young man to whom a gentleman can entrust his wife in the morning and return in the evening to find her satisfied, relaxed and flushed with rude health. Not surprisingly, the French authorities came to the conclusion that the sea air and a glimpse of dainty ankles was likely to result in mass immorality. The police were instructed to enforce strict controls on these supposed sybarites, and to ensure separate beaches for male and female bathers.
Indeed, not all of Dieppe's pleasure industries were totally innocuous. Henry Mayhew, in his voluminous study of 19th Century crime and punishment, London Labour and the London Poor, interviewed a number of young women with horror stories of their one-way paid trips to the resorts of the northern French coast. And perhaps here, in the dark side, is part of the explanation for the numbers of "gentlemen" who flocked to these resorts. I will let Mayhew himself explain:
"The English are known to congregate at Boulogne, at Havre, at Dieppe, at Ostend, and other places. It is considered lucrative by the keepers of bawdy-houses at these towns to maintain an efficient supply of English women for their resident countrymen: and though the supply is inadequate to the demand, great numbers of girls are decoyed every year, and placed in the "Maisons de passé," or "Maisons de joie," as they are sometimes called, where they are made to prostitute themselves. And by the farm of their persons enable their procurers to derive considerable profit.
An Englishwoman told me how she was very nearly entrapped by a foreign woman. "I met an emissary of a French bawdy-house," she said, "one night in the Haymarket, and, after conversing with her upon various subjects, she opened the matter she had in hand, and, after a little manoeuvring and bush-beating, she asked me if I would not like to go over to France. She specified a town, which was Havre. `You will get lots of money," she added, and further represented `that I should have a very jolly time of it.' `The money you make will be equally divided between yourself and the woman of the house, and when you have made as much as you want, you may come back to England and set up a cafe or night-house, where your old friends will be only too glad to come and see you.' ..... It is difficult to believe that there can be many persons engaged in this white slave-trade, but it is undeniably true."
Among the other vices offered de rigeur, then as now, in a top resort like Dieppe, was gambling. As the French traveller S. de Lalaing remarked in 1886, "For comfort and elegance, no building of the type equals the Casino of Dieppe." In fact, Dieppe was not quite in the same league as its Basque neighbours to the south, Trouville and Deauville. Nevertheless, it attracted its own set of enthusiastic repeat-visitors, exiles and emigrés, including an eclectic colony of English writers and artists.
Dieppe in the Naughty Nineties was crawling with famous and infamous characters alike. By some strange coincidence, more than a couple of whom have attracted speculation as possible suspects in London's Jack the Ripper Murders: most notably the painter Walter Sickert, who lived here for seven years, after his marriage broke apart, in 1898. But also (and rather more fantastically), the disgraced playwright Oscar Wilde, and even the great statesman, Lord Salisbury.
Lord Salisbury, was a great fan of Dieppe. He liked to holiday in his baroque, neo-colonial villa here so much that he had a cable laid under the Channel so that he could receive messages here - at enormous expense. The latest communications technology in an age before mobile phones or the internet were even dreamed of. Apparently the architectural style that elsewhere goes under the name of anglo-normand is known locally as "style Salisbury." Quite why the man liked this seedy ex-pat colony so much is something of a mystery. Just what was he doing here? Slumming it? We know that he visited Sickert in his studio. Perhaps his wife would have been attracted to the local ivories - a diversion during her husband's frequent late-night divisions in the House. We will leave him the benefit of the doubt, indeed the last word. As he commented memorably, "The more the facilities for travelling bring the two nations into contact, the less goodwill is likely to be generated". What would the earnest gentleman have thought of the Tunnel, and its high-speed, two-and-a-half-hour link between the two capitals? Time to finish an afternoon debate in The House, take the Eurostar and be in a Left Bank bistro for dinner...
Speaking of which, as you walk across Dieppe's cobbled quayside after a slap-up fish supper, you can easily imagine - as I did - the sound of the wheels of a diligence pulling up, the door creaking open, and someone famous stepping down. So many pairs of famous feet debarked in Dieppe in the last 20-odd years of the 19th century. In fact, an extraordinary cross-section of the great and not so-good from the British and French (not to mention the Vietnamese) Halls of Fame.
The hotel registers from the period must have read like an edition, if not of Who's Who, then at least the contributors' list of one of the underground artistic journals of the time, such as the notorious Yellow Book. The sybaritic poet Arthur Symons was a habitué of Dieppe, especially its Moorish Casino, where he spent many nights gambling. Aubrey Beardsley, artist and illustrator also visited the town.
Wilde compared Beardsley's erotic drawings to a schoolboy's scribblings. Allegedly, Wilde and Beardsley detested each other and went out of their way to avoid each other in the streets of Dieppe (no mean feat, as all of them seem to converge on the Café des Tribunaux).
The young painter Walter Sickert inherited his love for Dieppe from his parents, and form his artistic mentor, Whistler. None other than Oscar Wilde visited the Whistlers here in 1879. He too must have been much taken with the town as he spent his honeymoon with Constance here in 1895. And (with a certain sad irony) he was to return to Dieppe, in self-imposed exile, after his release from Reading Gaol in 1897. Here he lived discreetly in the Hotel Sandwich and later in nearby Berneval under the pseudonym of Sebastian Melmoth - a fictional name worthy of any of his plays, surely. Despite numerous pleading letters, his somewhat ironically-named wife, Constance, spurned Oscar's requests for reconciliation. Sickert does not seem to have been too keen on the fallen playwright Wilde, whose damned reputation must have walked before him much like that of Gary Glitter's today. And Wilde could be excused for taking a dislike to Sickert's work: the pervasive image of bathers in their stripey, convict-like costumes would probably have sent shivers down Wilde's spine.
The poet Edward Dowson was on better terms with Wilde, even persuading Oscar to accompany him to the local brothel, in an attempt to put his fellow writer back - if not quite on the straight and narrow, then at least back in the saddle. Oscar experimented with the pleasures of one of the Maison de joie, but found that its joys were not to his liking.
We do not have time and space here to speculate in detail as to whether RL Stevenson, another habitué of Victorian Dieppe, might have found inspiration among the local physiognomies for Dr Jeckyl, or for Mr Hyde (for whom, a visit today confirms a surprising number of potential photo-fits). Nor whether he might have found the seed of an idea for Treasure Island here. (Hook-armed stevedores unloading the catch of the day...) A letter written at the Hotel des Etrangers in 1878 gives the impression that he had little time or respect for the narcissistic-artistic demi-monde, the "French artistic tramps", as he called them. You can't seeing him hanging out at the bar with a lazy glass of absinthe. This was a man from a family of engineers, probably far more interested in the technicalities of steam-powered ferries than in the drug-crazed, twilight scribblings of his peers. No, for him a beer or a post-prandial brandy, surely. But read Dr Jeckyl again, and maybe he might have inhaled, just the once?
And history merely hints that André Gide, who met Wilde around this same period, indeed visited him in Dieppe in 1897, might have found inspiration for l'Immoraliste on its dockside streets. ("A l'eau c'est l'heure....) And perhaps Henry James paused to shiver in the fog in a pool of macabre lamp-light, while waiting for the return ferry, here in 1889. And then nodded, and took his note-book out...
But perhaps the most unexpected person one might have passed on the quays of turn-of-the century Dieppe was Ho Chi Minh - who started his career as a cabin boy on the Newhaven Dieppe ferry, before going on to lead the Vietnamese people to liberation from the wicked French and American imperialists.
Dieppe had almost forgotten its dubious heroics and gory past. However the days of sea-borne raiders were not quite past. The town was to witness a short but bloody scene during the Second World War which was to have far-reaching consequences for the later D-Day Invasions. The official British justification at the time was that the raid was designed as a reconnaissance raid to test the German's strength and state of preparedness. It was in itself a military disaster. Seven thousand commandos, many of them Canadian, landed here in August 1942. Of whom over half were to be killed, or captured. However, (so the official version goes) the Allies learned an invaluable lesson - that it would be suicide to mount the main invasion against the heavily defended ports. When the time came in 1944, they chose the beaches of Lower Normandy. The losses there, although severe, might have been much greater, and the outcome different elsewhere. Nevertheless, since the end of the War, an increasing amount of evidence suggests that the main reason for the raid was in fact a pact between Churchill and Stalin, whereby Britain promised to open a second front in 1942 to divert German attentions away from their Russian campaign. As a second front it was short-lived, and its military value in diverting the Germans must be questionable.
Not everyone in 19th century Dieppe lived in hotel suites or anglo-normand villas. Until the turn of the century, the cliffs around Dieppe were inhabited by what the editors of the Hachette Blue Guide sensationally described as "a few survivors from the cave-dwelling age". Not exactly Neanderthals, these troglodytes were actually beachcombers and fishermen, living in the numerous caves which were known as Goves or Gobes. For a while, they made a handsome sideline out of modelling for early seaside postcards. Old photographs of them are strangely reminiscent of scenes from the London slums of the time - large families of urchin children staring curiously at the photographer from beneath the washing lines.
Unfortunately we have lost some of the more notable residences of Dieppe's illustrious English residents. Salisbury's villa was burned down in the 1920's. Wilde's former residences were either destroyed in the last war, or have been converted into flats. The Café Suisse is still there, however, though what Wilde might think of the curvaceous, orange plastic furniture is a matter of serious conjecture. Not far away, the Café des Tribuneaux is also still trading under the same name it bore in the 19th Century. Here Wilde was guest of honour at such a dissolute party on his arrival in exile, that the local Prefect threatened him with immediate expulsion from France. To lose one green card is unfortunate…. As Oscar himself might well have said. Nevertheless, the Café des Tribuneaux was to become a frequent haunt - meeting-place and eating-place. Wilde is recorded as having dined on oysters here, though whether he also tried - and might have preferred - the local snails, is not.
At the church of St-Jacques is the tomb of Ango. Perhaps in the hope of making good some of his nautical misdeeds, he had made generous donations to the church, the results of which can still be seen in the choir. It is unlikely that all of Dieppe's corsairs would have had as time or patience for church-going, but they must have liked the 14th century gargoyles outside: a jolly triton complete with impressive sea-beard; and an exceptional siren, through the tips of whose scaly breasts the rainwater is channelled away from the church walls.
The town's old maritime traditions are still pervasive. Among other noteworthy local place names is the rue Quiquengrogne, inspired by the battle cry of late medieval pirates. And nearby, on the cliffs stands a chapel to the protectress of sailors - Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours (Our Lady of Good Help) - housing a memorial to local men lost in shipwrecks. There have been plenty. And children are still baptised in the shell of a giant clam, passing as a font at the church.
Dieppe remains a bustling commercial port - particularly important as the unloading point for fruit and shellfish imports. The vast fish market serves not only the local region, but also some of the top restaurants and poissoneries in the metropolis. As the European fish quota net tightens, so the prices offered at the daily criée or auction are noticeably rising. Fish, crustaceans and sea molluscs that were once the staple of the poor who could not afford to eat meat, are now becoming expensive delicacies. But the criée here, or elsewhere is worth visiting - here perhaps is the last echo of the former portside auctions where the booty from the holds of corsair vessels was sold off to the highest bidders.
Jean Ango would no doubt be pleased, on revisiting the town, to find that he is well commemorated, his financial fiascos apparently forgiven. He has his own harbour now - the Jean Ango Marina - as well as a fine statue, and the Eiffel-designed pont d'Ango bridge, built in 1870. Otherwise known as the "pont tournant" or turning bridge, this masterpiece of rivets and iron-plating still revolves to allow ships into the inner dock.
Ango would doubtless also be fascinated by the collection of maritime ivories in the Château Musée de Dieppe (formerly a prison, and indeed the place that Ango died in 1511): model ships carved for wealthy merchants, as well as more personal paraphernalia: snuff boxes, small religious icons, even intricate needles. In the 17th century sailors often learned the craft of ivory carving during long voyages, perhaps working out their apprenticeships on scraps of whalebone. But in Dieppe it soon became a profitable industry, using African ivory carved by hundreds of dedicated artisans. The town acquired a It was an art that was to come back into fashion during the First World War, when bored German POWs passed their time by carving maritime scenes on bone - you can often find examples in local antique shops.
However, there are certain items that you are less likely to come across, either in the junk shops or the guide books - though details of some remain in the town archives. Indeed, it seems that in the 18th century at least one of the ivory turners had found a lucrative side-line, producing custom-made "syringes" for local nuns and other ladies without husbands. One case from 1716 is well-documented, that of a Nicolas Baril, known as Duval, who was denounced for making "shameless and lascivious figurines". In fact these were "lifelike male members" - available to those in the know at the exorbitant price of one gold louis in ivory, but with an economy version available in bone. This diabolic, hollow device could be filled with warm milk, claimed Baril's accusers. This had a double advantage - not just to give it a more naturalistic temperature, but also to produce "more of a tickle" when it was expelled, via the syringe action. Baril claimed that his syringes were actually for treating venereal illnesses, but there were too many witnesses who said otherwise. Baril was fined five pounds and sentenced to appear on market-day in the public stocks. Further offences would be subject to a flogging, warned the magistrate.
One can't help feeling a certain perverse fascination in the tone of the trial documents, a zealous determination by Baril's accusers and prosecutors to get to the bottom of the matter, as it were. The investigation, of what one might today think was at most a minor misdemeanour, took a year. Yet finally, for the times, the punishment seems almost lenient. Perhaps some local notable or other, intervened discreetly on Baril's behalf. The Mother Superior of the local convent perhaps…
Today there are still two ivory-carver's workshops, both on the Rue d'Ango. It seems extraordinary that ivory is still available to carve, but apparently it is. Though they seem to trade more antique pieces than new ones, and at higher prices. There is an air of contraband about the street. In backrooms, by appointment, you can view certain types of carving, not displayed in the window, which are much sought after by certain wealthy collectors. No doubt to keep in their libraries and smoking-rooms with first editions of Symons and Beardsley's work… Need I say more?

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