_Chillon._
THE Castle of Chillon is a whitey-gray pile, with towers of varying
heights and black, pointed roofs, like extinguishers, clustering about
the central and tallest. The lake washes the base on all sides. A
wooden bridge, once a “draw,” joins the fortress to the shore. This
was the scene of the casualty to Julie’s child, and his rescue by the
mother, resulting in the death of the latter, narrated by Rousseau in
the concluding chapters of “La Nouvelle Héloïse.”
In spring and summer, the aspect of the storied prison is not
forbidding. The walk from the steamboat is pleasantly shaded throughout
much of its length. Trees grow down in the old moat; pretty creeping
plants drop in festoons and knots from the top and face of the
shore-wall; birds hop and sing in bending branches that dip in the
water. The “thousand years of snow on high” are verdant slopes below.
“The white-walled distant town,” “the channeled rock,” “the torrent’s
leap and gush”—are as familiar to Byron’s reader as the fields and
hills about his childhood’s home, distinct as a photograph painted by
Swiss sunshine.
The scenery near Chillon is the grandest on Lake Leman, reminding
one of the snow-capped ramparts of Lucerne. When, at eleven o’clock
of the last day of October, we left the steamboat dock in front of
the Hôtel Russie in Geneva, sky and wave were still and smiling. Mont
Blanc drew a cowl over his face by the time we touched the Nyon pier.
But the ugly old town had never been more nearly sightly. The five
Roman towers of the ancient castle were softly outlined against the
blue; the browns, grays and blacks of the houses, crowding into the
lake, were foil and relief to the scarlet and gold of massy vines,
the russet and purple and lemon-yellow of the trees on the esplanade
and the steep, winding streets. The cowl unfolded into mantling mist
upon “the left bank” (our right) as we sailed by Vevay, the “livest”
town on the upper lake. A company of school-boys in uniform were
drilling in the parade-ground close to the wharf, to the music of drum
and fife, a herd of _gamins_ peering enviously at them between the
pales of the fence. Window-gardens were flush with petunias, salvias
and pelargoniums. Woodbine streamed, as with living blood, from
hotel-balconies and garden-walls. The “grape-cure” was over and the
bulk of the vintage gathered, but purple bunches hung still among the
dying leaves,—luscious gleanings for the peasant-children trampling the
mellow soil with bare toes, and cheering shrilly as the boat glided
by. Clarens—“Julie’s” home—a village of pink, buff and pea-green
houses, more like painted sugar châteaux than human habitations,
harmonized better with the autumnal tints of aspen and poplar than
with their vernal green. The chestnut copse, known as the “_Bosquet
de Julie_,”—where she gave the first kiss to her lover, was like fine
gold for depth and brilliancy of hue. Montreux lies in the hollow of
a crescent-shaped cove, sheltered from adverse winds from whatever
quarter, a warm covert for invalids, where roses blossom eternally in
sight of never-melted snows. The bristly spines of mountains are its
rear-guard, and upon their lower terraces are hedges of evergreen
laurels, orchards of figs and pomegranates.
Thus far, we had sunshine and color with us, while, upon the other
shore, the stealing fogs kept pace with our progress,—a level line
at the lower edge which rested mid-way up the sides of the nearer
mountains, but gradually encroaching upon the blue above, until, when
we stepped ashore at Chillon, the sun began to look wan. The days were
shortening rapidly at this season. To save time, we took a carriage at
the wharf and drove directly to the Château through the hamlet that has
taken its name.
“GOD _bless the ingoers and outcomers_!” is the German legend above the
entrance, put there by the pious Bernese in 1643.
Our guide was a rosy Savoyard girl in blue skirt, scarlet bodice and
white apron. Dangling a bunch of ponderous keys from her forefinger,
she tripped across a courtyard shut in by the tall buildings and peaked
roofs, and paved with round stones, to a flight of cellar-steps. Just
such cellar-steps as are used by farmers’ wives and dairymaids in going
to and from buttery and cream-room. The descent of six or eight stairs,
worn and uneven, brought us to the subterranean chapel of the Dukes
of Savoy, a long, low room floored with roughened stones, the ceiling
supported by four thick pillars, and so dim, on the windowless side, as
to cast doubt upon the received theory of its original uses. Although
Religion, as understood and practised by thirteenth century lordlings
and their vassals, was a thing that lurked in and filled the dark
places of the earth. Next, was a small room, not eight feet square,
where the condemned by the worshipers in the adjoining chapel, passed
the night preceding his execution. A niche in the rear wall was filled
to half its height by a sloping ledge,—a rocky bed, inclining upward
at the head. On this, the doomed wretch lay until the morning looked
in upon his misery through the slit in the outer wall. This series of
vaults was supplied with all the ancient improvements for executions.
In the third apartment a black bar, extending across the cell, was the
gallows, and in the wall near the floor an aperture, now closed with
rude masonry, finished the drama with business-like promptness, being
the “_chute_” into eight hundred feet of water.
“Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls,
A thousand feet in depth below,
Its massy waters meet and flow.”
Two hundred feet, more or less, do not materially alter the story, or
diminish or increase the horror.
Bonnivard’s prison—_the_ dungeon of Chillon—is beyond the cell of
execution and the last of the grim suite of basement state-apartments.
The Prisoner of Chillon may have been the child of the poet’s brain.
Bonnivard was not a myth. Three times in arms against the ravening
beasts of war, known by the courtesy of history, as Dukes of Savoy, and
twice a prisoner, he was, at his second capture, immured in the Castle
of Chillon. Six weary years were spent by him in this rocky dungeon.
During two of these, he was chained to one of the “seven pillars of
Gothic mold” upbearing the ceiling. A stone of irregular shape is
embedded in the floor at its base. I sat down upon it; put my feet into
the hollow worn by his, as he rested thus, night after night, day by
day, year upon year!
The girl had disappeared, in answer to a call from the outer-room.
Caput leaned against the pillar beside me. We could just trace the
circle beaten out of the solid stone by the prisoner’s measured pacing,
around the pillar as far as the chain would let him go,—then, back
again. It is plain enough by day, but the light was failing where we
were. Caput struck a match and held it close to the mournful little
track;—another, that we might decipher Byron’s name upon the “autograph
column.” Then, the blue flame expired, and the gloom was deeper
than before. We hearkened silently to the lap of the lake against
the foundation-stones, and the moan of the rising wind; watched the
glimmering slits, without glass or shutters, that admitted light and
air.
“A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made—and like a living grave!”
quoted Caput. “It is worse! The dead do not dream!”
“Or hear!” I shuddered. “That dull ‘wash! wash!’ would drive me mad in
a week!”
Our little maid reäppeared, all out of breath, brimful of excuses for
having left us so long. We were quitting the dungeon when I detected
gleams, as of soft eyes, in the darkest corner.
“_Mes fleurs!_” smiled the girl. “They are safe here from frost and
need rest after blooming so well all summer. I bring them in every
winter. Would madame like some?”
She clipped and broke until I checked her liberality. The gleams that
had caught my eye were large Marguerites, with lissome, white petals,
that scarcely discolored in the pressing and drying.
“If they were mine I should rather leave them to the winds and
frost than have them winter here!” I said, touching the branches
compassionately.
“_Plaît-il?_” answered the Savoyard, with wide, innocent eyes.
Across the court-yard, upon the ground-floor of another building, is
the chamber of torture. This, too, has its memorial pillar, a slender,
wooden post in the middle of the room. To this, the prisoner was bound
for scourging.
“Sometimes they used whips,” said the guide. “Sometimes,——” she pointed
to scorched places on the seasoned wood.
The flesh tingles at sight of these dumb records, burned in upon the
memories of Protestants of that day, as they are into the surface of
the post. The scourge, in the cases of extreme offenders against ducal
and ecclesiastical law, was of fine wire, tipped with red-hot iron or
steel. When these missed the back of the victim, they wrote legibly and
lastingly upon the pillar of flagellation. There were other “ancient
improvements” here once, but they have been removed.
One of note was exhibited in another room,—“_the oubliettes_,”
sometimes called, “the well of promise.” Both names are significant
enough. It is an opening in the floor, fenced in with stout rails.
Four stone steps slant downward from the brink. The eye cannot pierce
the obscurity of the chasm. To the edge of this, then undefended well,
the tried and secretly-condemned prisoner was led, blindfolded, and
instructed to step down a staircase that would lead him into the outer
air and to liberty. The abyss is eighty feet deep. The bottom was set
with sharp knives.
Upon the second floor are the “family rooms,” the Duke’s bed-chamber
and the boudoir of the Duchess. This last is not large, and
so badly-lighted, that she must have required candles on the
toilette-table, except in the brightest weather. The walls are covered
with what masons style a “scratch-coat” of mortar. It was hung with
tapestry when Chillon was a ducal palace. This boudoir is immediately
above the chamber of torture. When we exclaimed at the proximity, the
girl explained, naïvely, that their Highnesses did not live here all
the year, having other residences. Probably, the operation of rack,
spiked helmet and collar, thumb-screw and scourging-post was subject to
the convenience of the Duchess. All the same, we wondered how she slept
with but the plank flooring between her and what she knew of, down
there.
The window of her room frames a superb view, on fine days, of the
“wide, long lake,” the towering heights of the Savoy side, and the
“small, green isle” with its three trees. Looking out of it, now, we
saw only the water darkening under the wreathing mists that had chased
us all the way from Nyon, and ruffled by the wind. In the spacious
Knight’s Hall to which we went next, we could barely discern the stains
on the walls that were once frescos, and make out the design of the
carved mantel around the mighty-mouthed chimney-place. The windows
are all toward the lake and deeply recessed, with broad inner ledges.
Within one of these embrasures we sat, gazing upon the slowly-gathering
storm, and listening to the “knocking”—Byron used the right word,—of
the sullen waves, our little Savoyard attending motionless upon our
pleasure. We were going no further than Montreux that night, and our
carriage would wait. We would see—we did see—Chillon upon brighter days
and in merrier company. It suited us to linger and dream, in the weird
twilight, of what had been in the isolated stronghold,—of what, pray
Heaven! could never be again.
The girl brought a lamp to guide us to the Duke’s private chapel.
The altar is gone, but the choristers’ seats of carved oak are left.
Benches are disposed in orderly rows for the Protestant service, held
here twice in the month. Chillon Castle is still a prison,—a cantonal
penitentiary,—in plainer English—a county jail. Upon each alternate
Sabbath, the inmates are gathered into the chapel, and one of the
neighborhood pastors ministers to them.
In the court-yard we stopped to gather some yellow-blossomed moss
sprouting between the stones, and our Savoyard damsel added to my
bouquet of prison-flowers, scarlet and brown leaves from the woodbine
running rankly over the tower in which is the torture-chamber. She
stood upon the drawbridge as we drove away, a stalwart young turnkey
at her side,—who, by the way, had narrowly missed locking us into the
lower cells by mistake. Her smiling face, red bodice and white apron
were the only spots of brightness in the gray-and-black picture of the
frowning fortress, close-folded in the mists and the rolling glooms of
the water.
We thought of the Marguerites in the dungeon.
FINIS.
A NEW VOLUME
_In the “Common Sense in the Household” Series._
THE DINNER YEAR-BOOK.
By MARION HARLAND,
Author of “COMMON SENSE IN THE HOUSEHOLD,” “BREAKFAST, LUNCHEON, AND
TEA,” etc., etc.
_WITH SIX ORIGINAL FULL-PAGE COLORED PLATES._
=One vol. 12mo, 720 pages, beautifully bound in cloth. Price $2.25.=
KITCHEN EDITION IN OIL-CLOTH COVERS AT SAME PRICE.
THE DINNER YEAR-BOOK is, in its name, happily descriptive of its
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COMMON SENSE IN THE HOUSEHOLD.
A MANUAL OF PRACTICAL HOUSEWIFERY.
=By MARION HARLAND=,
Author of “Alone,” “Hidden Path,” “Nemesis,” &c., &c.
One Vol. 12mo, cloth, Price $1.75
KITCHEN EDITION, IN OIL CLOTH COVERS, AT SAME PRICE
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
BREAKFAST, LUNCHEON & TEA.
One vol. 12mo, cloth, Price $1.75.
KITCHEN EDITION, IN OIL CLOTH COVERS, AT SAME PRICE.
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NOW READY.—THE THIRD EDITION.
_THE SECOND SERIES._
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INCLUDING
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_1 vol. 12mo, cloth, $1.50._
CRITICAL NOTICES.
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is something which is difficult to describe. It pleases
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“Whoever is the author, she is certainly entitled to
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RUDDER GRANGE.
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_One Volume, 16mo, Extra Cloth, attractive bindings, $1.25._
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The best Biography of the Greatest of the Romans.
CÆSAR: A SKETCH.
BY
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE, M.A.
One vol., 8vo, cloth, with a Steel Portrait and a Map.
Price, $2.50.
There is no historical writer of our time who can rival Mr. Froude
in vivid delineation of character, grace and clearness of style,
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CRITICAL NOTICES.
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men, his friends or rivals, who contemporaneously
with him formed the principal figures in the Roman
world.”—_Harper’s Monthly._
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far the best account of Julius Cæsar to be found in the
English language.”—_London Standard._
“It is the best biography of the greatest of the Romans
we have, and it is in some respects Mr. Froude’s best
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“Mr. Froude has given the public the best of all recent
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Haworth’s
BY
_FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT_,
Author of “THAT LASS O’LOWRIE’S.”
One Vol. 12mo, Illustrated. Price, $1.50.
The publication of a new novel from Mrs. Burnett’s pen
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and marks a higher point than was reached even in the
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_CRITICAL NOTICES._
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“The book is original, powerful, helpful, dramatic, vivid and great.
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NEW YORK EXPRESS.
_DR. FIELD’S TRAVELS ROUND THE WORLD._
I.
FROM THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY TO THE
GOLDEN HORN.
II.
FROM EGYPT TO JAPAN.
By HENRY M. FIELD, D.D., Editor of the N. Y. Evangelist.
Each 1 vol. 12mo. Cloth, gilt top, uniform in style, $2.
CRITICAL NOTICES.
By George Ripley, LL.D., in the New York Tribune.
Few recent travellers combine so many qualities that
are adapted to command the Interest and sympathy of
the public. While he indulges, to its fullest extent,
the characteristic American curiosity with regard to
foreign lands, insisting on seeing every object of
interest with his own eyes, shrinking from no peril
or difficulty in pursuit of information—climbing
mountains, descending mines, exploring pyramids,
with no sense of satiety or weariness, he has also
made a faithful study of the highest authorities on
the different subjects of his narrative, thus giving
solidity and depth to his descriptions, without
sacrificing their facility or grace.
From the New York Observer.
The present volume comprises by far the most novel,
romantic, and interesting part of the Journey [Round
the World], and the story of it is told and the scenes
are painted by the hand of a master of the pen. Dr.
Field is a veteran traveller; he knows well what to
see, and (which is still more important to the reader)
he knows well what to describe and how to do it.
By Chas. Dudley Warner, in the Hartford Courant.
It is thoroughly entertaining; the reader’s interest is
never allowed to flag; the author carries us forward
from land to land with uncommon vivacity, enlivens
the way with a good humor, a careful observation, and
treats all peoples with a refreshing liberality.
From Rev. Dr. R. S. Storrs.
It is indeed a charming book—full of fresh information,
picturesque description, and thoughtful studies of men,
countries, and civilizations.
From Prof. Roswell D. Hitchcock, D.D.
In this second volume, Dr. Field, I think, has
surpassed himself in the first, and this is saying
a good deal. In both volumes the editorial instinct
and habit are conspicuous, Dr. Prime has said that
an editor should have six senses, the sixth being “a
sense of the _interesting_.” Dr. Field has this to
perfection. * * *
From the New York Herald.
It would be impossible by extracts to convey an
adequate idea of the variety, abundance, or picturesque
freshness of these sketches of travel, without copying
a great part of the book.
Rev. Wm. M. Taylor, D.D., In the Christian at Work.
Dr. Field has an eye, if we may use a photographic
illustration, with a great deal of collodion in it,
so that he sees very clearly. He knows also how to
describe just those things in the different places
visited by him which an intelligent man wants to know
about.
*** _The above books for sale by all booksellers,
or mill be sent, post or express charges paid, upon
receipt of the price by the publishers,_
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,
743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Archaic spellings such as
“checquered” and “chabybeate” were retained as was the varied
hyphenation. Text also uses Hotel Bellevue and Hotel Belle Vue.
Page v, “Ollapodrida” changed to “Olla Podrida”
Pages 25 and 27, “Bronté” changed to “Brontë” (Here the Brontë) (or the
sisters Brontë)
Page 86, “brighest” changed to “brightest” (highest and brightest)
Page 90, “surburban” changed to “suburban” (our suburban towns)
Page 115, “faience” changed to “faïence” (faïence in a tumbling-down)
Page 118, “clerygman” changed to “clergyman” (applied to the clergyman)
Page 143, “Tuilleries” changed to “Tuileries” (Tuileries, where he had)
Page 145, “revolulution” changed to “revolution” (another
revolution—that)
Page 148, “l’infame” changed to “l’infâme” (fenêtre que l’infâme)
Page 149, “brulée” changed “brûlée” (burned (_brûlée_), but)
Pages 154 and 373, “chateau” changed to “château” (central château,
facing) (handsome château over)
Page 155, “regle” changed to “règle” (_en règle_ for a)
Page 162, “inquitude” changed to “inquietude” (and moral inquietude)
Page 166, poem, “cimitiere,” “chére,” and “légére” changed to
“cimetière,” “chère,” and “légère.”
Pages 205 and 240, “cocchiere” changed to “cocchière” (said our
_cocchière_) (the _cocchière_ upon)
Page 219, “quareled” changed to “quarrelled” (crows quarrelled at)
Page 228, “rilievo” changed to “relievo” (in basso-relievo)
Page 229, “dasies” changed to “daisies” (picked the daisies)
Page 230, “Réni” changed to “Reni” (by Guido Reni)
Page 233, “Réni’s” changed to “Reni’s” (containing Guido Reni’s)
Page 265, “stubborness” changed to “stubbornness” (a mule’s in
stubbornness)
Page 272, “deceiftul” changed “deceitful” (climate is deceitful)
Page 275, “Liliputian” changed “Lilliputian” (Lilliputian mansion, is)
Page 302, “propretor” changed “proprietor” (with the proprietor)
Page 359, “an” changed to “as” (level as an Illinois)
Page 370, “Goldnau” changed to “Goldau” (The Goldau Landslip)
Page 377, “heacons” changed to “beacons” (by one, as beacons)
Page 382, “feed” is past tense of “fee” in this instance so is correct
as printed.
Page 394, “chateaux” changed to “châteaux” (châteaux and humbler)
Page 404, “géne” changed to “gêne” (je vous gêne)
Pages 405 and 432, “Plait” changed to “Plaît” (Plaît-il?)
End of Project Gutenberg's Loitering in Pleasant Paths, by Marion Harland