La Grange was looking its loveliest when I arrived the other day. It
was a bright, beautiful October afternoon and the first glimpse of the
château was most picturesque. It was all the more striking as the run
down from Paris was so ugly and commonplace. The suburbs of Paris
around the Gare de l'Est--the Plain of St. Denis and all the small
villages, with kitchen gardens, rows of green vegetables under glass
"cloches"--are anything but interesting. It was not until we got near
Gréty and alongside of Ferrières, the big Rothschild place, that we
seemed to be in the country. The broad green alleys of the park, with
the trees just changing a little, were quite charming. Our station was
Verneuil l'Etang, a quiet little country station dumped down in the
middle of the fields, and a drive of about fifty minutes brought us to
the château. The country is not at all pretty, always the same
thing--great cultivated fields stretching off on each side of the
road--every now and then a little wood or clump of trees. One does not
see the château from the high road.
We turned off sharply to the left and at the end of a long avenue saw
the house, half hidden by the trees. The entrance through a low
archway, flanked on each side by high round towers covered with ivy,
is most picturesque. The château is built around three sides of a
square court-yard, the other side looking straight over broad green
meadows ending in a background of wood. A moat runs almost all around
the house--a border of salvias making a belt of colour which is most
effective. We found the family--Marquis and Marquise de Lasteyrie and
their two sons--waiting at the hall door. The Marquis, great-grandson
of the General Marquis de Lafayette, is a type of the well-born,
courteous French gentleman (one of the most attractive types, to my
mind, that one can meet anywhere). There is something in perfectly
well-bred French people of a certain class that one never sees in any
other nationality. Such refinement and charm of manner--a great desire
to put every one at their ease and to please the person with whom they
are thrown for the moment. That, after all, is all one cares for in
the casual acquaintances one makes in society. From friends, of
course, we want something deeper and more lasting, but life is too
short to find out the depth and sterling qualities of the world in
general.
The Marquise is an Englishwoman, a cousin of her husband, their common
ancestor being the Duke of Leinster; clever, cultivated, hospitable,
and very large minded, which has helped her very much in her married
life in France during our troubled epoch, when religious questions and
political discussions do so much to embitter personal relations. The
two sons are young and gay, doing the honours of their home simply and
with no pose of any kind. There were two English couples staying in
the house.
We had tea in the dining-room downstairs--a large room with panels and
chimney-piece of dark carved wood. Two portraits of men in armour
stand out well from the dark background. There is such a wealth of
pictures, engravings, and tapestries all over the house that one
cannot take it all in at first. The two drawing-rooms on the first
floor are large and comfortable, running straight through the house;
the end room in the tower--a round room with windows on all sides--quite
charming. The contrast between the modern--English--comforts (low,
wide chairs, writing-table, rugs, cushions, and centre-table covered
with books in all languages, a very rare thing in a French château,
picture papers, photographs, etc.) and the straight-backed,
spindle-legged old furniture and stiff, old-fashioned ladies and
gentlemen, looking down from their heavy gold frames, is very
attractive. There is none of the formality and look of not being lived
in which one sees in so many French salons, and yet it is not at all
modern. One never loses for a moment the feeling of being in an old
château-fort.
It was so pretty looking out of my bedroom window this morning. It was
a bright, beautiful autumn day, the grass still quite green. Some of
the trees changing a little, the yellow leaves quite golden in the
sun. There are many American trees in the park--a splendid Virginia
Creeper, and a Gloire de Dijon rose-bush, still full of bloom, were
sprawling over the old gray walls. Animals of all kinds were walking
about the court-yard; some swans and a lame duck, which had wandered
up from the moat, standing on the edge and looking about with much
interest; a lively little fox-terrier, making frantic dashes at
nothing; one of the sons starting for a shoot with gaiters and
game-bag, and his gun over his shoulder, his dog at his heels
expectant and eager. Some of the guests were strolling about and from
almost all the windows--wide open to let in the warm morning
sun--there came cheerful greetings.
I went for a walk around the house before breakfast. There are five
large round towers covered with ivy--the walls extraordinarily
thick--the narrow little slits for shooting with arrows and the round
holes for cannon balls tell their own story of rough feudal life. On
one side of the castle there is a large hole in the wall, made by a
cannon ball sent by Turenne. He was passing one day and asked to whom
the château belonged. On hearing that the owner was the Maréchal de la
Feuillade, one of his political adversaries, he sent a cannon ball as
a souvenir of his passage, and the gap has never been filled up.
I went all over the house later with the Marquis de Lasteyrie. Of
course, what interested me most was Lafayette's private
apartments--bedroom and library--the latter left precisely as it was
during Lafayette's lifetime; bookcases filled with his books in their
old-fashioned bindings, running straight around the walls and a
collection of manuscripts and autograph letters from kings and queens
of France and most of the celebrities of the days of the Valois--among
them several letters from Catherine de Medicis, Henry IV, and la Reine
Margot. One curious one from Queen Margot in which she explains to the
Vicomte de Chabot (ancestor of my host) that she was very much
preoccupied in looking out for a wife for him with a fine dot, but
that it was always difficult to find a rich heiress for a poor
seigneur.
There are also autographs of more modern days, among which is a letter
from an English prince to the Vicomte de Chabot (grandfather of the
Marquis de Lasteyrie), saying that he loses no time in telling him of
the birth of a very fine little girl. He certainly never realized when
he wrote that letter what would be the future of his baby daughter.
The writer was the Duke of Kent--the fine little girl, Queen Victoria.
In a deep window-seat in one corner, overlooking the farm, is the
writing-table of Lafayette. In the drawers are preserved several books
of accounts, many of the items being in his handwriting. Also his
leather arm-chair (which was exhibited at the Chicago World's Fair),
and a horn or speaking-trumpet through which he gave his orders to the
farm hands from the window. The library opened into his bedroom--now
the boudoir of the Marquise de Lasteyrie--with a fine view over moat
and meadow. In this room there have been many changes, but the old
doors of carved oak still remain.
There are many interesting family portraits--one of the father of
Lafayette, killed at Minden, leaving his young son to be brought up by
two aunts, whose portraits are on either side of the fireplace.
It is curious to see the two portraits of the same epoch so absolutely
unlike. Mme. de Chavagnac, an old lady, very simply dressed, almost
Puritanical, with a white muslin fichu over her plain black silk
dress--the other, Mademoiselle de Lafayette, in the court dress of the
time of Louis XVI, pearls and roses in the high, powdered coiffure and
a bunch of orange flowers on one shoulder, to indicate that she was
not a married woman.
There were pictures and souvenirs of all the Orléans family--the
Lasteyries having been always faithful and devoted friends of those
unfortunate princes; a charming engraving of the Comte de Paris, a
noble looking boy in all the bravery of white satin and feathers--the
original picture is in the possession of the Duc de Chartres. It was
sad to realize when one looked at the little prince with his bright
eyes and proud bearing, that the end of his life would be so
melancholy--exile and death in a foreign land.
There are all sorts of interesting pictures and engravings scattered
about the house in the numberless corridors and anterooms. One most
interesting and very rare print represents a review at Potsdam held by
Frederick the Great. Two conspicuous figures are the young Marquis de
Lafayette in powdered wig and black silk ribbon, and the English
General Lord Cornwallis, destined to meet as adversaries many years
later during the American Revolution. There are many family pictures
on the great stone staircase, both French and English, the Marquis de
Lasteyrie, on the maternal side, being a great-grandson of the Duke of
Leinster. Some of the English portraits are very charming, quite
different from the French pictures.
In the centre panel is the well-known portrait of Lafayette by Ary
Scheffer--not in uniform--no trace of the dashing young soldier; a
middle-aged man in a long fur coat, hat and stick in his hand;
looking, as one can imagine he did when he settled down, after his
brilliant and eventful career, to the simple patriarchal life at La
Grange, surrounded by devoted children, grandchildren, and friends.
We were interrupted long before I had seen all the interesting part of
the house and its contents, as it was time to start for La Houssaye,
where all the party were expected at tea. We went off in three
carriages--quite like a "noce," as the Marquise remarked. The drive
(about an hour) was not particularly interesting. We were in the heart
of the great agricultural district and drove through kilometres of
planted fields--no hills and few woods.
We came rather suddenly on the château, which stands low, like all
châteaux surrounded by moats, turning directly from the little village
into the park, which is beautifully laid out with fine old trees. We
had glimpses of a lovely garden as we drove up to the house, and of
two old towers--one round and one square. The château stands well--a
very broad moat, almost a river, running straight around the house and
gardens. We crossed the drawbridge, which always gives me a sensation
of old feudal times and recalls the days of my childhood when I used
to sit under the sickle-pear tree at "Cherry Lawn" reading Scott's
"Marmion"--"Up drawbridge, grooms--what, Warder, ho! Let the
portcullis fall!" wondering what a "portcullis" was, and if I should
ever see one or even a château-fort.
La Houssaye is an old castle built in the eleventh century, but has
passed through many vicissitudes. All that remains of the original
building are the towers and the foundations. It was restored in the
sixteenth century and has since remained unchanged. During the French
Revolution the family of the actual proprietor installed themselves in
one of the towers and lived there many long weary weeks, never daring
to venture out, show any lights, or give any sign of life--in daily
terror of being discovered and dragged to Paris before the dreaded
revolutionary tribunals. Later it was given, by Napoleon, to the
Marshall Augereau, who died there. It has since been in the family of
the present proprietor, Monsieur de Mimont, who married an American,
Miss Forbes.
The rain, which had been threatening all the afternoon, came down in
torrents just as we crossed the drawbridge, much to the disappointment
of our host and hostess, who were anxious to show us their garden,
which is famous in all the countryside. However, in spite of the
driving rain, we caught glimpses through the windows of splendid
parterres of salvias and cannas, making great spots of colour in a
beautiful bit of smooth green lawn. In old days the château was much
bigger, stretching out to the towers. Each successive proprietor has
diminished the buildings, and the present château, at the back, stands
some little distance from the moat, the vacant space being now
transformed into their beautiful gardens.
We only saw the ground-floor of the house, which is most comfortable.
We left our wraps in the large square hall and passed through one
drawing-room and a small library into another, which is charming--a
corner room looking on the gardens--the walls, panels of light gray
wood, prettily carved with wreaths and flowers.
We had tea in the dining-room on the other side of the hall; a curious
room, rather, with red brick walls and two old narrow doors of carved
oak. The tea--most abundant--was very acceptable after our long damp
drive. One dish was rather a surprise--American waffles--not often to
be found, I imagine, in an old French feudal castle, but Madame de
Mimont's nationality explained it. I was very sorry not to see the
park which is beautifully laid out, but the rain was falling straight
down as hard as it could--almost making waves in the moat, and a
curtain of mist cut off the end of the park.
Our dinner and evening at La Grange were delightful. The dining-room
is particularly charming at night. The flowers on the table, this
evening, were red, and the lights from the handsome silver candélabres
made a brilliant spot of warmth and colour against the dark panelled
walls--just shining on the armour of the fine Ormond portraits hanging
on each side of the fireplace. The talk was always easy and pleasant.
One of the guests, the naval attache to the British Embassy to France,
had been "en mission" at Madrid at the time of the Spanish Royal
marriage. The balcony of the English Embassy overlooked the spot where
the bomb was thrown. In eighty-five seconds from the time they heard
the detonation (in the first second they thought it was a salute), the
Ambassador, followed by his suite, was at the door of the royal
carriage. He said the young sovereigns looked very pale but calm; the
king, perhaps, more agitated than the Queen.
We finished the evening with music and dumb crambo--that particularly
English form of amusement, which I have never seen well done except by
English people. It always fills me with astonishment whenever I see
it. It is so at variance with the English character. They are usually
so very shy and self-conscious. One would never believe they could
throw themselves into this really childish game with so much entrain.
The performance is simple enough. Some of the company retire from the
drawing-room; those who remain choose a word--chair, hat, cat, etc.
This evening the word was "mat." We told the two actors--Mrs. P. and
the son of the house--they must act (nothing spoken) a word which
rhymed with _hat_. I will say they found it very quickly, but some of
their attempts were funny enough--really very cleverly done. It amused
me perfectly, though I must frankly confess I should have been
incapable of either acting or guessing the word. The only one I made
out was fat, when they both came in so stuffed out with pillows and
bolsters as to be almost unrecognizable. The two dogs--a beautiful
little fox-terrier and a fine collie--went nearly mad, barking and
yapping every time the couple appeared--their excitement reaching a
climax when the actors came in and stretched themselves out on each
side of the door, having finally divined the word mat. The dogs made
such frantic dashes at them that M. and Mme. de Lasteyrie had to carry
them off bodily.
The next morning I went for a walk with M. de Lasteyrie. We strolled
up and down the "Allée des Soupirs," so called in remembrance of one
of the early chatelaines who trailed her mourning robes and widow's
veil over the fallen leaves, bemoaning her solitude until a favoured
suitor appeared on the scene and carried her away to his distant
home--but the Allée still retains its name.
The park is small, but very well laid out. Many of the memoirs of the
time speak of walks and talks with Lafayette under the beautiful
trees.
During the last years of Lafayette's life, La Grange was a
cosmopolitan centre. Distinguished people from all countries came
there, anxious to see the great champion of liberty; among them many
Americans, who always found a gracious, cordial welcome; one silent
guest--a most curious episode which I will give in the words of the
Marquis de Lasteyrie:
"One American, however, in Lafayette's own time, came on a lonely
pilgrimage to La Grange; he was greeted with respect, but of that
greeting he took no heed. He was a silent guest, nor has he left any
record of his impressions; in fact, he was dead before starting on his
journey. He arrived quite simply one fine autumn morning, in his
coffin, accompanied by a letter which said: 'William Summerville,
having the greatest admiration for the General Lafayette, begs he will
bury him in his land at La Grange.' This, being against the law, could
not be done, but Lafayette bought the whole of the small cemetery of
the neighbouring village and laid the traveller from over the sea to
rest in his ground indeed, though not under one of the many American
trees at La Grange itself, of which the enthusiastic wanderer had
probably dreamed."
They told me many interesting things, too long to write, about the
last years of Lafayette's life spent principally at La Grange. A
charming account of that time and the lavish hospitality of the
château is given by Lady Morgan, in her well-known "Diary." Some of
her descriptions are most amusing; the arrival, for instance, of Lady
Holland at the home of the Republican General. "She is always preceded
by a fourgon from London containing her own favourite meubles of
Holland House--her bed, fauteuil, carpet, etc., and divers other
articles too numerous to mention, but which enter into her Ladyship's
superfluchoses très nécessaires, at least to a grande dame one of her
female attendants and a groom of the chambers precede her to make all
ready for her reception. However, her original manner, though it
startles the French ladies, amuses them."
Her Irish ladyship (Lady Morgan) seems to have been troubled by no
shyness in asking questions of the General. She writes: "Is it true,
General, I asked, that you once went to a bal masque at the opera with
the Queen of France--Marie Antoinette--leaning on your arm, the King
knowing nothing of the matter till her return? I am afraid so, said
he. She was so indiscreet, and I can conscientiously add--so innocent.
However, the Comte d'Artois was also of the party, and we were all
young, enterprising, and pleasure-loving. But what is most absurd in
the adventure was that, when I pointed out Mme. du Barry to her--whose
figure and favourite domino I knew--the Queen expressed the most
anxious desire to hear her speak and bade me intriguer her. She
answered me flippantly, and I am sure if I had offered her my other
arm, the Queen would not have objected to it. Such was the esprit
d'aventure at that time in the court of Versailles and in the head of
the haughty daughter of Austria."
I remember quite well the parents of my host. The Marquise, a type of
the grande dame, with blue eyes and snow white hair survived her
husband many years. During the war of 1870 they, like many other
châtelains, had Prussian soldiers in their house. The following
characteristic anecdote of the Marquise was told to me by her son:
"There are still to be seen at La Grange two little cannon which
had been given to Lafayette by the Garde Nationale. One December
morning, in 1870, when the house was full of German troops, Madame de
Lasteyrie was awakened by a noise under the archway, and looking out
of her window saw, in the dim light, the two guns being carried off by
the German soldiers. In an instant, her bare feet hastily thrust into
slippers, her hair like a long white mane hanging down her back, with
a dressing gown thrown over her shoulders, she started in pursuit. She
followed them about three miles and at last came upon them at the top
of a hill. After much persuasion and after spiking the guns (in no
case could they have done great damage), the soldiers were induced to
give them up, and departed, leaving her alone in the frost and
starlight waiting for the morning. She sat bare-footed (for she had
lost her shoes) but triumphant on her small cannon in the deep snow
till the day came and the farm people stole out and dragged them
all--the old lady and the two guns--back to the house."
I was sorry to go--the old château, with its walls and towers soft and
grey in the sunlight, seems to belong absolutely to another century. I
felt as if I had been transported a hundred years back and had lived a
little of the simple patriarchal life that made such a beautiful end
to Lafayette's long and eventful career. The present owner keeps up
the traditions of his grandfather. I was thinking last night what a
cosmopolitan group we were. Three or four different nationalities,
speaking alternately the two languages--French and English--many of
the party having travelled all over the world and all interested in
politics, literature, and music; in a different way, perhaps, but
quite as much as the "belles dames et beaux esprits" of a hundred
years ago. Everything changes as time goes on (I don't know if I would
say that _everything_ improves), but I carried away the same
impression of a warm welcome and large hospitable life that every one
speaks of who saw La Grange during Lafayette's life.