of passionate thought, whose trees take root in love;" about it lies the
charming region which Rousseau chose for his fiction and peopled with
affections, and where Byron, Houghton, and Shelley loved to linger. Here
the latter first read "Nouvelle Heloise" amid the settings of its
scenes; here Byron wrote many glowing lines, inspired by the beauty and
romantic associations around him. From the vine-clad terraces which
cling to the heights we behold the view which enraptured the poet,--a
broad expanse of lacustrine beauty and Alpine sublimity, embracing the
Leman shores from the Rhone to the Juras of Gex, the entire width of the
"_bleu impossible_" lake and Alp piled on Alp beyond. Back of Clarens we
find the spot of Rousseau's "Bosquet de Julie," and, at a little
distance among embowering trees, the birthplace of a woman stranger than
any fancied character of his fiction, the Madame de Warens of his
"Confessions."
[Sidenote: Prison of Chillon]
Between Clarens and Villeneuve, on an isolated rock whose base is laved
by Leman's waters, which "meet and flow a thousand feet in depth below,"
stands the grim prison of Chillon, the scene of Byron's poem. The
fortress is an irregular pile of masonry, and, with its massive walls,
loop-holed towers, and white battlements, is a picturesque object seen
across wide reaches of the lake. The present structure is a hoary
successor to a stronghold still more ancient: the prehistoric
lake-dwellers here had a fortress and were succeeded by the Franks and
Romans. Of the present structure, the Romanesque columns and the range
of dungeons are known to have been in existence in 830, when Count Wala,
a cousin of Charlemagne, for alluding to the wife of Louis the Debonair
as "that adulterous woman," was incarcerated here. Thus Judith's
reputation was vindicated and the earliest certain date of this fortress
fixed. The present superstructure remains unchanged since the
thirteenth century. It is now connected with the shore by a wooden
structure which spans the moat and replaces the ancient drawbridge.
Through a massive gate-way we enter a roughly-paved court, whence a
bluff Savoyard conducts us through the romantic pile. Among the
apartments of the ducal family we see the banqueting-hall where the
dukes held roistering wassail; the kitchen on whose great hearth oxen
were roasted whole; the Chamber of Inquisition where hapless prisoners
were tortured to extort confession, this room being near the chamber of
the duchess, into which--despite its thick wall--the shrieks of the
tortured must have sometimes penetrated and disturbed Her Serene
Highness. Outside her door is a post to which the wretches were bound,
and it is scored by marks of the irons which cauterized their flesh; in
a near corner stood a rack which rent them limb from limb. The crypt
beneath, with its low arched vaults and its graceful pillars rising out
of the rock, is the most interesting portion of the fortress. Referring
to their architectural perfection, Longfellow once said these were the
"most delightful dungeons he ever saw," but as we stand in their
twilight gloom the horrors of their history weigh heavily on the heart.
During this century the castle has been used as an arsenal, but
occasionally also as a prison, and Byron found some of these "chambers
of sorrow" tenanted at the time of his visits. One contracted cell is
that in which the condemned passed their last night of life chained upon
a rock, near the beam upon which they were strangled and the opening
through which their bodies were thrust into the lake. Another vault
contains a pit or well, with a spiral stair down which poor dupes
stepped into a yawning depth and--eternity. A third chamber, so dark
that its grotesque carvings are scarcely discernible and no missal could
be read by daylight, was the chapel of the fortress. Traversing the
succession of dungeons, we come to the last and largest, and reverently
stand beside the column where Byron's prisoner was chained. This
"dungeon deep and old" lies not beneath the level of the lake, as Byron
believed, yet it is sufficiently dank and dismal to be the appropriate
scene of the touching and tragic story which he located here. It is a
long, crypt-like apartment, whose vaulted roof of rock is upheld by the
"seven pillars of Gothic mould" aligned along the middle. It is dimly
lighted by loop-holes pierced in the ponderous walls for the feudal
bowmen; through these narrow apertures, where the prisoner "felt the
winter's spray wash through the bars when winds were high," we look out,
as did he, upon the distant town, "the lake with its white sails," the
"mountains high," and the little Isle de Paix--"scarce broader than the
dungeon floor"--gleaming like an emerald from a setting of amethyst.
Here is Bonnivard's chain, scarce four feet long, and in the central
pillar the ring which held it. The light, falling aslant "through the
cleft of the thick wall" upon the floor, shows us the pathway worn in
the rock by the pacing of the prisoner during the weary years, and
reveals--graven on the column-stone by the poet's hand--the name Byron.
At Chillon we are in the midst of a region pervaded by the sentiment of
the pilgrim-poet. The Byron path leads from the shore to the broad
terraces of the Hotel Byron, whence we behold as in a picture the
romantic scene his poetry portrays,--the "mountains with their thousand
years of snow," the shimmering water of "the wide long lake," the dark
slopes of the Juras terraced to their summits, the "white-walled towns"
upon the nearer hill-sides. Directly before us--bearing its three tall
trees--"the little isle, the only one in view," smiles in our faces from
the bosom of the water; on the right we see sweet Clarens and the
picturesque battlements of Chillon; on the left, the glittering peaks of
Dent du Midi and the Alps of Savoy, with the "Rhone in fullest flow"
between the rocky heights; while from the farther shore rise the cliffs
of Meillerie, at whose base Byron and Shelley, clinging to their frail
boat, narrowly escaped a watery grave on the very spot where St. Preux
and Julia of "Nouvelle Heloise" were rescued from the same fate.
[Sidenote: Rousseau and Byron scenes]
Our farewell view of this Land of Byron is taken on a cloudless summer
night, when the radiance of the harvest moon exalts and glorifies all
the scene; the grim prison of Bonnivard is transformed into a snowy
palace of peaceful delights, the white mountain-peaks gleam with the
chaste lustre of pearls, the vine-embowered village on the shore seems
an Aidenn of purity and light, and the sheen of the tremulous water is
that of a sea of molten silver. Surely, on all her round, "Luna lights
no spot more fair."
CHATEAUX OF FERNEY AND COPPET
_Voltaire's Home, Church, Study, Garden, Relics--Literary Court of
de Stael--Mementos--Famous Rooms, Guests--Schlegel--Shelley--
Constant--Byron--Davy, etc.--De Stael's Tomb._
A literary pilgrimage on Leman's shores that did not include Ferney
among its shrines would be obviously incomplete. No matter how widely we
may dissent from his opinions or how much we may deplore some of his
utterances, the brilliant philosopher who for so many years inhabited
that spot and made it the intellectual capital of the world commands a
place in letters which we may neither gainsay nor ignore, and the
Chateau Voltaire is to many visitors one of the chief objects of
interest in the neighborhood of Geneva.
[Sidenote: Voltaire's Church--Mansion]
Beneath a summer sky a delightful jaunt of a few miles, among orchards
and vineyards and past the ancestral home of Albert Gallatin, brings us
to Voltaire's domain in Gex. The mansion and town of Ferney were alike
the creation of the _genius loci_; he was architect and builder of both.
The town and its factories were erected to give shelter and employment
to hundreds of artisans who appealed to him against oppressive
employers at Geneva. The place has obviously degenerated since his time;
an air of shabbiness and thriftlessness prevails, and ancient smells by
no means suggestive of "the odors of Araby the blest" obtrude upon the
pilgrim. At the public fountain stout-armed women were washing family
linen manifestly long unused to such manipulation. Near by dwell
descendants of Voltaire's secretary Wagniere. Upon a verdant plateau
farther away, in the heart of one of the most beautiful regions of
earth, "girdled by eighty leagues of mountains that pierce the sky," was
Voltaire's last home. By its gate is the little church he built, bearing
upon its gable his inscription "Deo Erexit Voltaire." Here he attended
mass with his niece, and, as _seigneur_, was always incensed by the
priest; here he gave in marriage his adopted daughters; here he preached
a homily against theft; and here he built for himself a tomb, projecting
into the side of the church,--"neither within nor without," as he
explained to a guest,--where he hoped to be buried. The church was long
used as a tenement, later it has been a storage- and tool-house. The
chateau is a spacious and dignified three-storied structure of Italian
style, attractive in appearance and well suited to one of Voltaire's
tastes and occupations. The exterior has been somewhat altered, but the
apartments of the philosopher are essentially unchanged. The late
proprietor preserved the study and bedroom nearly as Voltaire left them
when he started upon his fatal visit to Paris. They are small, with high
ceilings, quaint carvings, faded tapestries, and are obviously planned
to facilitate the work of the busiest author the world has known, who
here, after the age of threescore, wrote a hundred and sixty works. Many
of these assailed the church authorities, who had shown themselves
capable of punishing mere difference of opinion by the rack and the
stake, but "the religion of the Sermon on the Mount and the character of
men of good and consistent lives" they did not attack: some of the books
were cursed at Rome, some at Geneva, others were burned at both places.
[Sidenote: His Rooms--Furniture]
Disposed in Voltaire's rooms we have seen his heavy furniture; his
study-chair standing by the table upon which he wrote half of each day;
his beautiful porcelain stove, a gift from Frederick the Great; a draped
mausoleum bearing an inscription by Voltaire and designed by his
_protege_ to contain his heart; many paintings presented by royal
admirers,--Albani's "Toilet of Venus," Titian's "Venus and Love," a
picture of Voltaire's chimney-sweep, portrait of Lekain who acted so
many of Voltaire's tragedies, portraits of that philosopher, a fanciful
deification of him by Duplessis; on the same wall, coarse engravings of
Washington and Franklin. Franklin was the firm friend of Voltaire, and
it was his letters which first brought to Ferney news of the Declaration
of Independence. The discolored embroidery of Voltaire's bed and
arm-chair was wrought by his niece Madame Denis, "the little fat woman
round as a ball." Habitually complaining of illness in his last years,
he spent more than half his time in this quaint bed. He had a desk,
containing writing materials, suspended above the bed so that he could
write here day or night, and the amount of work he thus accomplished is
astounding: in the last four years of feeble life he wrote thirty works
varying in size from a pamphlet to a ponderous tome. His breakfast was
served in bed, and here he habitually attended to his correspondence,
which included most of the sovereigns of Europe and the learned and
great of all climes. In this bed he once lay for weeks feigning mortal
illness, and thus induced the priest to give him the _viaticum_. This
bedroom, too, was the scene of many quarrels with his niece regarding
her extravagances, but as we sit in his chair by his bedside we prefer
to recall more pleasing incidents the room has witnessed; here he
dictated to Marie Corneille the ardent words which brought reparation
to many a cruelly wronged family; this was the scene of his many
pleasantries with the house-keeper "Baba," and of the loving
ministrations of his sweet ward "Belle et Bonne."
Many of Voltaire's belongings have been removed and his estate has been
shorn of its vast dimensions, but much remains to remind us of the
genius of the place. Here are the gardens, lawns, and shrubberies he
planted; on this turf-grown terrace beneath his study windows he paced
as he planned his compositions, and here, at the age of eighty-three, he
evolved "Irene" and parts of "Agathocles;" near by are his fount, his
arbored promenade, the shaded spot where he wrote in summer days, the
place of the lightning-rod made for him by Franklin. Long reaches of the
hedge were rooted by him, many of the trees are from the nursery he
cultured, the cedars were raised from seeds sent to him by the Empress
Catherine. A venerable tree in the park was planted by Voltaire's own
hands: when we point to a blemish upon its trunk and ask our guide,
whose family have dwelt on the estate since the time of Voltaire, if
that is the effect of lightning, as has been averred, he indignantly
declares the only damage the tree ever sustained has been from visitors
who, to secure souvenirs of the illustrious philosopher, would destroy
the whole tree were he not alert to protect it.
[Sidenote: An Intellectual Capital--Reminiscences]
For twenty years this home of Voltaire was the centre and pharos of the
intellectual world. To this court kings sent couriers with proffers of
honors and assurances of esteem; hither came legions of _litterateurs_,
academicians, politicians, eager to hail the savant or to secure his
commendation. "All roads then led to Ferney as they once did to Rome,"
and the hospitalities of the chateau were so taxed that Voltaire
declared he was innkeeper for all Europe. He habitually complained of
the climate here, "Lapland in winter, Naples in summer;" during some
seasons "thirty leagues of snow were visible from his windows;" but on
the July day of our visit the atmosphere is exquisitely delightful and
Voltaire's "desert" seems a paradise. Behind us rise the vine-clad
slopes of Jura, below lies the lake like an amethystine sea, afar gleam
the snow-crowned peaks, and about us in the old gardens are the golden
sunshine, the incense of flowers, the twitter of birds, and all the
charm of sweet summer-time. As we linger in the spots he loved it is
pleasant to recall the good that mingled in the oddly composite nature
of the daring old man who inhabited this beautiful scene and created
much of its beauty; to remember that dumb creatures loved him and fed
from his hand; that the destitute and oppressed never vainly applied to
him for succor or protection; that in varying phrase he solemnly
averred, in letters of counsel to youthful admirers in his own and other
lands, "We are in the world only for the good we can do."
Of the galaxy of _litterateurs_ who had home or haunt by Leman's margins
Madame de Stael, by her long residence and many incidents of her career,
seems most closely associated with this region of delights. The chateau
of Coppet has for two centuries belonged to her family; here some
portion of her girlhood was passed; here she found asylum from the
horrors of the French Revolution and residence when Napoleon banished
her from his capital. Later her son Auguste dwelt here, and the place is
now the property of her great-granddaughter. Literary and social
associations render this mediaeval chateau one of the most interesting
spots on earth. Exiled from the society of Paris, de Stael erected here
a court which became the centre of intellectual Europe. Coppet was in
itself a lustrous microcosm whose attraction was the conversation of its
hostess and queen, which allured the wit and wisdom of a continent,
making this court not only a literary centre, but a political power of
which Napoleon, by his proscriptions, proclaimed his fear. The great
number of illustrious courtiers who came to Coppet caused the priestess
of its hospitalities to aver she needed "a cook whose heels were
winged."
[Sidenote: Home of de Stael]
The darkly-verdured terraces of Jura on the one hand, the blue waters
and the farther snowy peaks on the other, fitly environ the enchanting
scene in the midst of which was set the abode of the greatest woman of
her time. From Geneva a charming sail along the lake conveys us to her
home and sepulchre. We approach the chateau between rows of venerable
trees beneath which de Stael loitered with her guests. The stately
edifice rises from three sides of a court, whence we are admitted to a
large hall on the lower floor which she used as a theatre. These walls,
which give back only the echo of our foot-falls, have resounded with the
applause of fastidious auditors when the queen of Coppet, with her
children and Recamier, de Sabran, Werner, Jenner, Constant, Von Vought,
or Ida Brun acted upon a stage at yonder end of the room. The
composition of plays for this theatre was sometime de Stael's principal
recreation: these have been published as "Essais Dramatiques." But more
ambitious dramas were presented; the matchless Juliette acted here with
Sabran and de Stael in "Semiramis;" Werner assisted in the first
presentation of "Attila," which was written here; Constant's
"Wallenstein" was composed here and first produced on this stage, as was
also Oehlenschlaeger's "Hakon Jarl." De Stael was an efficient actress,
her lustrous eyes, superb arms, and strong and flexible voice
compensating for deficiencies of training. A broad stair leads from the
silent theatre to the principal apartments, among which we find the
library where Necker wrote his "Politics and Finance," the grand salon
and reception-rooms,--all of imposing dimensions and having parquetted
floors. Arranged in these rooms are many mementos of the daughter of
genius who once inhabited them,--hangings of tapestry; antique
spindle-legged furniture carved and gilded in quaint fashion; the
cherub-bedecked clock that stood above her desk; her books and inkstand;
the desk upon which "Necker," "Ten Years of Exile," "Allemagne," and
many minor treatises were written. Upon the wall is her portrait, by
David, which pictures her with bare arms and shoulders, her head crowned
by a nimbus of yellow turban which she wore when costumed as "Corinne:"
the features are not classical, but the brunette face, with its splendid
dark eyes, is comely as well as intellectual, and obviously contradicts
Byron's declaration, "She is so ugly I wonder how the best intellect of
France could have taken up such a residence." Schaeffer's portrait of
her daughter hangs near by, displaying a face of striking beauty, and a
picture of Madame Necker, de Stael's mother, represents a sweet-faced
woman who smiles upon the visitor despite the discomfort of a painfully
tight-fitting dress of white satin. Here also are portraits of Necker,
of de Stael's first husband, of her son Auguste, of Schlegel, and of
other literary _confreres_, a statue of her father, by Tieck, and a bust
of Rocca, her youthful second husband. The latter represents a
finely-shaped head and a winning face. Byron thought Rocca notably
handsome, and Frederica Brun testified, "he had the most magnificent
head I ever saw." He was so slender that one of de Stael's courtiers
wondered "how his many wounds found a place upon him:" these wounds,
received in the Peninsula, won for him the sympathy of de Stael, which
deepened into love.
[Sidenote: Memorable Rooms--Mementos]
As we wander through the rooms, waking the echoes and viewing the
souvenirs of the illustrious dead, as we ponder their lives, their aims,
their works, it seems, amid the vivid associations of the place, to
require no supernal effort of the fancy to repeople it with the
brilliant company who were wont to assemble here. Of these apartments,
the salon, from whose wall looks down the portrait of Corinna, will
longest hold the pilgrim. It was the throne-room of this court: here
resorted a throng of the best and noblest minds, _litterateurs_,
scientists, men of largest thought, of highest rank. Here Recamier was a
frequent guest: yonder mirror, with its multipanes framed in gilt metal,
often reflected her lovely face. In this room she danced for the delight
of de Stael her famous gavotte, which had transported the _beau monde_
of Paris, and was rewarded by its celebration in "Corinne." Some who
came to this court remained as residential guests: for fifteen years
Sismondi worked here upon his "Literature of Southern Europe," etc.;
here the sage Bonstetten wrote many of his twenty-five volumes; here
Schlegel, the great critic of his age, who is commemorated in "Corinne"
as Castel-Forte, was installed for twelve years and prepared his works
on dramatic literature; here Werner, author of "Luther," "Wanda," etc.,
wrote much of his mystic poetry; here the Danish national poet composed
his noblest tragedies, "Correggio" being a souvenir of Coppet; here
Constant penned many dramas. Among the frequenters of this salon were
Madame de Saussure, famous for her books on education; Frederica Brun,
with her daughter Ida who is imaged in "Allemagne;" Sir Humphry and Lady
Davy, the latter being the realization of "Corinne;" Madame de
Kruedener, author of "Valerie," from whom Delphine was mainly drawn;
Barante the critic; Dumont, editor of Jeremy Bentham. Of those who came
less often were Cuvier, Gibbon, Ritter, Lacretelle, Mirabeau, Houghton,
Brougham, Ampere, Byron, Shelley, Montmorency, Wynona, Tieck, Mueller,
Candolle, de Sergey, Prince Augustus, and scores of others.
[Sidenote: Literary Court and Courtiers]
This room, where that galaxy assembled, has witnessed the most wonderful
intellectual _seances_ of the century. We may imagine something of the
brilliancy of an assembly of such minds presided over by de Stael,--what
gayety, what coruscations of wit, what displays of wisdom, what keenness
of discussion were not possible to such a circle! For some time
religious tenets were frequently under consideration. Every shade of
belief, doubt, and agnosticism had its defenders in the company.
Sismondi was corresponding with Channing of Boston, whose views he
espoused, and the arrival of each letter caused the renewal of the
argument in which de Stael was the principal advocate of the spiritual
motive of Christianity as against a system of mere well-doing. All
questions of literature, art, ethics, philosophy, politics, were
considered here by the most capable minds of the age, the discussions
being oft prolonged into the night. But that there may be too much
even of a good thing is naively confessed by Bonstetten, one of the
lights of these _seances_, in his letters: "I feel tired by surfeit of
intellect: there is more mind expended at Coppet in a day than in many
countries in a year, but I am half dead." Scintillant converse was
interspersed with music from the old harpsichord in yonder
corner,--touched by fingers that now are dust,--with recitations and
reading of MSS. It was the habit of de Stael to read to the circle, for
their criticism, what she had written during the morning, and to discuss
the subsequent chapters. Guests who were writing at the chateau then
read their compositions--Bonstetten's "Latium" often put the company to
sleep--and eagerly sought de Stael's suggestions; "the lesser lights
were glad to borrow warmth and lustre from the central sun."
Chateauvieux declares, "She formed my mental character; for twenty years
my sentiments were founded upon hers." Sismondi says, "She determined my
literary career; her good sense guided my pen." Bonstetten, Schlegel,
Werner, and others bear similar testimony to the value of her counsel.
[Sidenote: Byron, Shelley, etc.]