A DIGRESSION AT CHILLON
Chillon is probably the best-known castle in Switzerland. It commands
the one pass between the mountains and the lake, and there, in the old
days, two horsemen could defend the passage against a host. On Mont
Sonchaux, a spur of the high crags of Naye, with Mont Arval rising on
the east, and torn with ravines and landslides, between the two
torrents, the Veraye and the Tinère, it stands, “a mass of towers
placed on a mass of rocks.”
We sailed all around, from one side of the bridge to the other, and
managed to approach near enough to clamber ashore. We fastened the
boat to a tree by the long _maille_, as they call the painter on the
lake. Then we went all over the ancient fortress. Happily the Canton
has at last awakened to the propriety of not merely keeping it in
repair, but also of restoring it to something like its pristine
condition. In the earlier castle Louis le Débonnaire confined his
kinsman, Count Walla, the friend of Lothaire, on the ground that he
was the instigator of that prince’s revolt against his father. At that
time the country was a wilderness, and there was only a chapel where
now Montreux gathers a wealthy and luxurious population. Walla spent
many years in Chillon, but was ultimately transferred to the fortified
Island of Noirmontier. Then he was set free, and died in 835 in the
Abbey of Bobbio, sixteen leagues from Milan.
In 1235, Duke Pierre de Savoy received the Province of Chamblais,
extending from Saint Bernard to the torrent of the Veveyse and to the
Arve on both sides of the lake.
He erected many castles--one at Martigny, at the entrance to the pass
leading up to Saint Bernard; one at Evian, on the south side of the
lake; and still another at the village of Peilz--and he reconstructed
Chillon. Having mastered the Pays de Vaud, he governed with
moderation. He organized troops of archers and halberdiers,
established shooting-societies, and maintained strong garrisons at
various points. In 1265, Rodolphe, Duke of Hapsburg, invaded Vaud and
besieged Chillon. Pierre suddenly attacked him and won a great
victory. They took the duke prisoner, together with eighty barons,
lords, knights and nobles of the country. After this Pierre had things
his own way; he settled down at the Castle of Chillon and one of his
pleasures was to go out rowing on the lake.
In 1358, when the plague ravaged Europe, the Jews were accused of
poisoning the water. “The Court of Justice of Chillon,” says the local
hand-book, “caused these unhappies to be tortured and they would
confess and then were burnt.” So roused against them were the
population that on one occasion a rabble forced the gates of the
castle and put a number of them to death.
In Pierre’s day it must have been a magnificent residence. Even now,
viewed with the eye of imagination, one can get some notion of what it
was in its period of splendour, though Thomas Jefferson Hogg, in his
“Journal of a Traveller,” declares that it is ugly, with its
whitewashed walls crowned with a red-tiled roof. It is built in the
form of an irregular oval. In the centre is a high, square tower which
contained a great alarm-bell, the deep tones of which must have often
echoed over the waters to call the defenders to resist the attacks of
fierce enemies. On the north side are two ranges of crenelated walls
and three round towers. On the east is the massive square of the
principal tower, through which is the only entrance, formerly closed
by a drawbridge extending from the shore to the rock. The rooms where
the counts and their ladies dwelt in state were on the south side. On
the first floor is the great apartment once occupied by the Governor
of Chillon. In one of the rooms is a magnificent fireplace with
sculptured columns. In the story above are the chambers where knights
habited. Here are pillars richly carved, ornamented with ancient coats
of arms, and once draped with banners. Then come the chambers of the
duke and duchess, communicating by a private door. The duchess’s
windows look down on the blue waters of the lake, while that of the
prince looks into the courtyard.
[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.]
Religion was not neglected in those days; in the chapel one admires
the beautiful ogive of the nave. From the Hall of Justice a stairway
leads down into the vaults below. These are caverns about a hundred
meters long. The floors are only eight feet above the lake, which goes
off very abruptly down to the deepest depths. These vaults are
partitioned off into chambers of different sizes, separated by narrow,
dark spaces and used for dungeons. Each of the subterranean cells
contains a row of pillars, surmounted by ogive arches. They are like
the sombre and almost magical dungeons under the ancient King Arkel’s
castle, where Pélléas and his jealous brother grope in Maeterlinck’s
marvellous drama.
The last and largest of these terrible apartments is the one where
Bonivard was confined. It is entered by a low, narrow doorway, and is
divided by seven huge pillars, around one of which is the legendary
groove hollowed by the restless pacing of the prisoner’s circling
feet. Above are several narrow slits admitting a dim light. On bright
days the light reflected from the lake casts a weird radiance on the
ceiling. Little trembling waves go chasing one another across.
Bonivard could tell when it was morning, for then the light is blue,
while in the afternoon it has a sickly, greenish hue.
Francis Bonivard was born at Seyssel and was educated at Turin. At
twenty he became prior of Saint Victor, a small monastery near Geneva.
He joined the political organization, called “The Children of Geneva,”
which was engaged in a revolt against the Bishop and Duke of Savoy. He
said--“I foresee that we shall finally do what our friends in Berne
have done--separate from Rome. I was twenty years old and I was led
like the others more by affection than by counsel, but God granted a
happy issue to all our foolish undertakings, and treated us like a
good father.”
The duke managed to capture him and imprisoned him for two years at
Gex and Gerolles. Later, he fell a second time into the duke’s clutch.
Bonivard tells how it happened:--“At Moudon I resolved to return to
Lausanne. When we were in the Jorat, lo, the Captain of the Castle of
Chillon, Antoine de Beaufort, with some of his companions, comes out
of the forest where he was concealed and approaches me suddenly. These
worthy gentlemen fall on me all at once and make me a prisoner by the
captain’s order and, though I show them my passport, they carry me off
tied and bound to Chillon, where I was compelled to endure my second
suffering for six years.”
This was from 1530 till 1536. He was treated mildly at first, but
afterwards he was thrown into the dungeon and fastened to one of the
pillars. “I had so much time for walking,” he says with a sort of grim
humour, “that I wore a little pathway in the rock, as if it had been
done with a hammer.”
In 1536 the Bernese sent troops to help Geneva, which was besieged by
Duke Charles III. Reinforced by the Genevese fleet after the relief of
Geneva, they in turn besieged Chillon. The governor with his escort
fled to Savoy and Bonivard was set free. His first words were:--“And
Geneva?”
“Also free,” was the laconic reply.
* * * * *
After Bern had conquered Savoy, Auguste de Luternan (an appropriate
name for a Lutheran) was the first Bernese bailiff of Chillon, and he
and his successors made various alterations in the buildings. In 1733
the bailiwick was transferred to Vevey and just seventy years later
the castle became the property of Vaud. For some time it was
grievously neglected. For its sole garrison it had two gens-d’armes,
and it was used only as a military magazine and a prison.
A prison? Ay! One must never forget the most illustrious prisoner ever
confined in its gloomy oubliettes--though, to tell the honest truth,
Chillon never had any oubliettes. Tartarin de Tarascon, tamer of
camels, destroyer of African lions, slayer of the super-Alpine
chamois--we see him passing disdainfully amid the attractions of the
glittering shops of Montreux, only to be arrested as a Russian
Nihilist and, under threat of being gagged unless he keep his mouth
shut, borne away to the very castle sacred to the memory of Bonivard,
in whom he had lost faith, since William Tell had become a myth! Here
is the vivid picture as chronicled by Daudet:--
“The carriage rolled across a drawbridge, between tiny shops where
trinkets were for sale--chamois-skin articles, pocket-knives,
button-hooks, combs and the like--passed under a low postern and came
to a stop in the grass-grown courtyard of an old castle flanked by
round pepper-box towers, with black balconies held up by beams. Where
was he? Tartarin understood when he heard the police captain talking
with the doorkeeper of the castle, a fat man in a Greek cap, shaking a
huge bunch of rusty keys.
“‘In solitary confinement?--But I haven’t any more room. The rest of
them occupy all the--unless we put him in Bonivard’s dungeon.’
“‘Put him in Bonivard’s dungeon then; it’s quite good enough for him,’
said the captain authoritatively. And his commands were obeyed.
“This Castle of Chillon, which the President of the Alpine Club had
been for two days constantly talking about to his friends, the
Alpinists, and in which, by the irony of fate, he suddenly found
himself imprisoned without knowing why, is one of the historical
monuments of Switzerland. After having served as a summer residence of
the Counts of Savoy, then as a State prison, a dépôt of arms and
stores, it is now only an excuse for an excursion, like the Rigi-Kulm
or the Tellsplatte. There is however a police-station there and a
lock-up for drunkards and the wilder youths of the district; but such
inmates are rare, as La Vaud is a most peaceful canton; thus the
lock-up is for the most part untenanted and the keeper keeps his
winter fuel in it. So the arrival of all these prisoners had put him
in a bad humour, particularly when it occurred to him that he should
no longer be able to pilot people through the famous dungeons, which
was at that season attended with no little profit.
[Illustration: THE PRISON OF BONIVARD IN THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.]
“Filled with rage, he led the way and Tartarin timidly followed him,
making no resistance. A few worn steps, a musty corridor, smelling
like a cellar, a door as thick as a wall, with enormous hinges, and
there they were in a vast subterranean vault, with deeply worn floor
and solid Roman columns on which hung the iron rings to which in
former times prisoners of state were chained. A dim twilight
filtered in and the rippling lake was reflected through the narrow
loop-holes, which allowed only a slender strip of sky to be seen.
“‘This is your place,’ said the jailer. ‘Mind you do not go to the
end; the oubliettes are there.’
“Tartarin drew back in horror.
“‘The oubliettes! _Noudiou!_’ he exclaimed.
“‘What would you have, man alive? I was ordered to put you in
Bonivard’s dungeon. I have put you in Bonivard’s dungeon. Now, if you
have the wherewithal, I can supply you with some luxuries, such as a
mattress and a coverlet for the night.’
“‘Let me have something to eat first,’ said Tartarin, whose purse
fortunately had not been taken from him.
“The doorkeeper returned with fresh bread, beer and a Bologna sausage,
and these were eagerly devoured by the new prisoner of Chillon, who
had not broken his fast since the day before, and was worn out with
fatigue and emotion. While he was eating it on his stone bench, in the
dim light of the embrasure, the jailer was steadily studying him with
a good-natured expression.
“‘Faith,’ said he, ‘don’t know what you have been doing and why you
are treated so severely....’
“‘Eh! _coquin de sort_, no more do I. I know nothing at all about it,’
replied Tartarin, with his mouth full.
“‘At any rate, one thing is certain--you don’t look like a criminal
and I am sure you would never keep a poor father of a family from
gaining his living, eh? Well, then, I have upstairs a whole throng of
people who have come to see Bonivard’s dungeon. If you will give me
your word to keep still and not attempt to escape--’
“The worthy Tartarin at once gave his word and five minutes later he
saw his dungeon invaded by his old acquaintances of the Rigi-Kulm and
the Tellsplatte--the stupid Schwanthaler, the ineptissimus
Astier-Réhu, the member of the Jockey Club with his niece
(hum!--hum!), all the Cook’s tourists. Ashamed and afraid of being
recognized, the unhappy man hid behind the pillars, retiring and
stealing away as he saw the tourists approach, preceded by his jailer
and that worthy’s rigmarole, recited in a lugubrious tone, ‘This is
where the unfortunate Bonivard--’
“They came forward slowly, retarded by the disputes of the two
savants, who were all the time quarrelling, ready to fly at each
other--one waving his camp-stool, the other his travelling-bag, in
fantastic attitudes which the half-light magnified along the vaulted
dungeon roof.
“By the very exigency of retreat, Tartarin found himself at last near
the opening of the oubliettes--a black pit, open level with the floor,
breathing an odor of past ages, damp and chilling. Alarmed, he paused,
crouched in a corner, pulling his cap over his eyes; but the damp
saltpeter of the walls affected him and suddenly a loud sneeze, which
made the tourists start back, betrayed him.
“‘Hold! Bonivard!’ exclaimed the saucy little Parisienne in the
Directoire hat, whom the member of the Jockey Club called his niece.
“The Tarasconian did not permit himself to display any signs of being
disturbed.
“‘These oubliettes are really very interesting,’ he remarked, in the
most natural tone in the world, as if he also were a mere
pleasure-seeker visiting the dungeon. Then he joined the other
tourists, who smiled when they recognized the Alpinist of the
Rigi-Kulm, the mainspring of the famous ball.
“‘_Hé! Mossié!--ballir, ‘dantsir!_’
“The comical outline of the little fairy Schwanthaler presented itself
before him ready to dance. Truly he had a great mind to dance with
her. Then, not knowing how to get rid of this excited bit of
womanhood, he offered his arm and gallantly showed her his
dungeon--the ring whereon the prisoner’s chain had been riveted; the
traces of his footsteps worn in the rock around the same column; and,
hearing Tartarin speak with such facility, the good lady never
suspected that he who was walking with her was also a state
prisoner--a victim to the injustice and the wickedness of man.
Terrible, for instance, was the parting, when the unfortunate
‘Bonivard,’ having led his partner to the door, took leave of her with
the smile of a society gentleman, saying, ‘No, thank you,--I will stay
here a moment longer.’ She bowed, and the jailer, who was on the
alert, locked and bolted the door to the great astonishment of all.
“What an insult! He was bathed in the perspiration of agony, as he
listened to the exclamations of the departing visitors. Fortunately
such torture as this was not inflicted on him again that day. The bad
weather deterred tourists....”
In the morning he is rudely awakened, and brought before the prefect,
charged with being the dreaded Russian incendiary and assassin,
Manilof.
It is soon made manifest that there is a dreadful mistake. The
prefect, angry at having been sent for under false pretences, cries in
a terrible voice:--“Well, then, what are you doing here?”
“‘That is just what I want to know,’ replies the V. C. A., with all
the assurance of innocence.”
And Tartarin is set free. Verily, we look among the names
scribbled on the walls--names of great writers and men of less
distinction--Rousseau, Byron, Victor Hugo, George Sand, Shelley,
Eugène Sue--for the immortal autograph of Tartarin de Tarascon. It
must have been carried off bodily, like the picture of Mona Lisa! But
Tartarin himself is just as much an inhabitant of the vaults as
Byron’s Bonivard. And was not the policeman whom we caught sight of on
the quai at Montreux the very one whose long blue capote was turned so
persistently toward the omnibus in which rode the Tarasconian
quartet?