_August 19, 1820._
The day we set out from Pregny we breakfasted at Coppet; from some
misunderstanding M. de Staël had not expected us and had breakfasted,
but as he is remarkably well-bred, easy, and obliging in his manners he
was not _put out_, and while our breakfast was preparing he showed us
the house. All the rooms once inhabited by Madame de Staël we could not
think of as common rooms--they have a classical power over the mind, and
this was much heightened by the strong attachment and respect for her
memory shown in every word and look, and _silence_ by her son and by her
friend, Miss Randall. He is correcting for the press _Les dix Années
d'Exil._ M. de Staël after breakfast took us a delightful walk through
the grounds, which he is improving with good taste and judgment. He told
me that his mother never gave any work to the public in the form in
which she originally composed it; she changed the arrangement and
expression of her thoughts with such facility, and was so little
attached to her own first views of the subject that often a work was
completely remodelled by her while passing through the press. Her father
disliked to see her make any formal preparation for writing when she was
young, so that she used to write often on the corner of the
chimney-piece, or on a pasteboard held in her hand, and always in the
room with others, for her father could not bear her to be out of the
room--and this habit of writing without preparation she preserved ever
afterwards.
M. de Staël told me of a curious interview he had with Buonaparte when
he was enraged with his mother, who had published remarks on his
government--concluding with "Eh! bien vous avez raison aussi. Je conçois
qu'un fils doit toujours faire la defense de sa mère, mais enfin, si
Monsieur veut écrire des libelles, il faut aller en Angleterre. Ou bien,
s'il cherche la gloire, c'est en Angleterre qu'il faut aller. C'est
l'Angleterre, ou la France--il n'y a que ces deux pays en Europe--dans
le monde."
Before any one else at Paris, Miss Randall told me, had the _MS. de
Sainte-Hélène_, a copy had been sent to the Duke of Wellington, who lent
it to Madame de Staël; she began to read it eagerly, and when she had
read about half, she stopped and exclaimed, "Where is Benjamin Constant?
we will wait for him." When he came, she began to give him an account of
what they had been reading; he listened with the indifference of a
person who had already seen the book, and when she urged him to read up
to them, he said he would go on where they were. When it was criticised,
he defended it, or writhed under it as if the attack was personal. When
accused of being the author, he denied it with vehemence, and Miss
Randall said to him, "If you had simply denied it I might have believed
you, but when you come to swearing, I am sure that you are the author."
M. de Staël called his little brother, Alphonse Rocca, to introduce him
to us; he is a pleasing, gentle-looking, ivory-pale boy with dark-blue
eyes, not the least like Madame de Staël. M. de Staël speaks English
perfectly, and with the air of an Englishman of fashion. After our walk
he proposed our going on the lake--and we rowed for about an hour. The
deep, deep blue of the water, and the varying colours as the sun shone
and the shadows of the clouds appeared on it were beautiful. When we
returned and went to rest in M. de Staël's cabinet, Dumont, who had
quoted from Voltaire's "Ode on the Lake of Geneva," read it to us. Read
it and tell me where you think it ought to begin.
We slept at Morges on Tuesday, and arrived late and tired at Yverdun.
Next morning we went to see Pestalozzi's establishment; he recognised me
and I him; he is, tell my mother, the same wild-looking man he was, with
the addition of seventeen years. The whole superintendence of the school
is now in the hands of his masters; he just shows a visitor into the
room, and reappears as you are going away with a look that pleads
irresistibly for an obole of praise.
While we were in the school, and while I was stretching my poor little
comprehension to the utmost to follow the master of mathematics, I saw
enter a benevolent-looking man with an open forehead and a clear, kind
eye. He was obviously an Englishman, and from his manner of standing I
thought he was a captain in the navy. My attention was called away, and
I was intent upon an account of a school for deaf and dumb, which I was
interested in on account of William Beaufort, when a lady desired to be
introduced to me; she said she had been talking to Mrs. Moilliet, taking
her for Miss Edgeworth--she was "the wife of Captain Hillyar, Captain
Beaufort's friend." What a revolution in all our ideas! We almost ran to
Captain Hillyar, my benevolent--looking Englishman, and most cordially
did he receive us, and insisted upon our all coming to dine with him.
When I presented Fanny and Harriet to him as Captain Beaufort's nieces
he did look so pleased, and all the way home he was praising Captain
Beaufort with such delight to himself. "But I never write to the fellow,
faith! I'll tell you the truth; I can't bring myself to sit down and
write to him, he is such a superior being; I can't do it; what can I
have to say worth his reading? Why, look at his letters, one page of
them contains more sense than I could write in a volume."
At dinner, turning to Fanny and Harriet, he drank "Uncle Francis's
health;" and when we took leave he shook us by the hand at the carriage
door. "You know we sailors can never take leave without a hearty shake
of the hand. It comes from the heart, and I hope will go to it."
From Yverdun our evening drive by the lake of Neufchatel was beautiful,
and mounting gradually we came late at night to Paienne, and next day to
Fribourg, at the dirtiest of inns, as if kept by chance, and such a
mixture of smells of onions, grease, dirt, and dunghill! But, never
mind! I would bear all that, and more, to see and hear Père Gèrard. But
this I keep for Lovell, as I shall tell him all about Pestalozzi,
Fellenburg, and Père Gèrard's schools. You shall not even know who Père
Gèrard is.
So we go on to Berne. The moment we entered this canton we perceived the
superior cultivation of the land, the comfort of the cottagers, and
their fresh-coloured, honest, jolly, independent, hard-working
appearance. Trees of superb growth, beech and fir, beautifully mixed,
grew on the sides of the mountains. On the road here we had the finest
lightning I ever saw flashing from the horizon. Berne is chiefly built
of a whitish stone, like Bath stone, and has flagged walks arched over,
like Chester. A clear rivulet runs through the middle of each street:
there are delightful public walks. On Sunday we saw the peasants in
their holiday costume, very pretty, etc.
I have kept to the last that M. de Staël and Miss Randall spoke in the
most gratifying terms of praise of my father's life.