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IN CHATEAU LAND
* * * * *
_By Anne Hollingsworth Wharton_
AN ENGLISH HONEYMOON. Decorated title and 17
illustrations. Cloth, extra, $1.50 _net_.
ITALIAN DAYS AND WAYS. Decorated title and 8
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* * * * *
[Illustration: Neurdein Freres, Photo.
LOCHES WITH GATE OF CORDELIERS]
IN CHATEAU LAND
by
ANNE HOLLINGSWORTH WHARTON
With 25 Illustrations
[Illustration]
Philadelphia and London
J. B. Lippincott Company
MCMXI
Copyright, 1911, by J. B. Lippincott Company
Published November, 1911
Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
at the Washington Square Press
Philadelphia, U.S.A.
CONTENTS
I PAGE
AN EMBARRASSMENT OF CHATEAUX 9
II
AN ISLAND CHATEAU 30
III
AN AFTERNOON AT COPPET 45
IV
EN ROUTE FOR TOURAINE 64
V
IN AND AROUND TOURS 80
VI
LANGEAIS AND AZAY-LE-RIDEAU 96
VII
TWO QUEENS AT AMBOISE 117
VIII
A BATTLE ROYAL OF DAMES 146
IX
A FAIR PRISON 174
X
COMPENSATIONS 202
XI
THE ROMANCE OF BLOIS 226
XII
THREE CHATEAUX 258
XIII
CHINON AND FONTEVRAULT 295
XIV
ANGERS 319
XV
ORLEANS AND ITS MAID 349
XVI
A CHATEAU FETE 369
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
LOCHES, WITH GATE OF CORDELIERS _Frontispiece_
ISOLA BELLA, LAKE MAGGIORE 36
STAIRCASE AND CLOITRE DE LA PSALLETTE, ST. GATIEN 82
MEDIAEVAL STAIRWAY, CHATEAU OF LUYNES 96
ENTRANCE TO LANGEAIS, WITH DRAWBRIDGE 98
CAFE RABELAIS OPPOSITE CHATEAU OF LANGEAIS 108
CHATEAU OF AZAY-LE-RIDEAU, EAST FACADE 112
CHATEAU OF LANGEAIS, FROM THE LOIRE 120
CHATEAU OF AMBOISE, FROM OPPOSITE BANK OF THE LOIRE 130
CHENONCEAUX, MARQUES TOWER AND GALLERY ACROSS THE CHER 154
HOUSE OF TRISTAN L'HERMITE 178
AGNES SOREL 188
ENTRANCE TO CHATEAU OF BLOIS, WITH STATUE OF LOUIS XII 214
COURT OF BLOIS, WITH STAIRCASE OF FRANCIS I 228
LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE 238
CHATEAU OF CHAUMONT, THE LOIRE ON THE LEFT 264
SMITHY NEAR GATE OF CHEVERNY 278
FROM PHOTOGRAPH BY MRS OTIS SKINNER
ANNE DE THOU, DAME DE CHEVERNY 282
CHATEAU OF CHAMBORD 286
RUINS OF CHATEAU OF COUDRAY AT CHINON 296
FRENCH CAVE DWELLINGS NEAR SAUMUR 316
FORGE NEAR STONE STAIRWAY AT LUYNES 354
FROM PHOTOGRAPH BY MRS OTIS SKINNER
HOTEL CABU 364
HOUSE OF JOAN OF ARC 364
SALLE DES MARRIAGES, ORLEANS 366
IN CHATEAU LAND
I
AN EMBARRASSMENT OF CHATEAUX
HOTEL FLORENCE, BELLAGIO, August 10th.
YOU will be surprised, dear Margaret, to have a letter from me here
instead of from Touraine. We fully intended to go directly from the
Dolomites and Venice to Milan and on to Tours, stopping a day or two in
Paris en route, but Miss Cassandra begged for a few days on Lake Como,
as in all her travels by sea and shore she has never seen the Italian
lakes. We changed our itinerary simply to be obliging, but Walter and I
have had no reason to regret the change for one minute.
Beautiful as you and I found this region in June, I must admit that its
August charms are more entrancing and pervasive. Instead of the clear
blues, greens and purples of June, the light haze that veils the
mountain tops brings out the same indescribable opalescent shades of
heliotrope, azure and rose that we thought belonged exclusively to the
Dolomites. However, these mountains are first cousins, once or twice
removed, to the Eastern Italian and Austrian Alps and have a good right
to a family likeness. There is something almost intoxicating in the
ethereal beauty of this lake, something that goes to one's head like
wine. I don't wonder that poets and artists rave about its charms, of
which not the least is its infinite variety. The scene changes so
quickly. The glow of color fades, a cloud obscures the sun, the blue and
purple turn to gray in an instant, and we descend from a hillside
garden, where gay flowers gain added brilliancy from the sun, to a
cypress-bordered path where the grateful shade is so dense that we walk
in twilight and listen to the liquid note of the nightingale, or the
blackcap, whose song is sometimes mistaken for that of his more
distinguished neighbor.
This morning when we were resting in a hillside pavilion, near the Villa
Giulia, gazing upon the sapphire lake and the line of purple Alps
beyond, we concluded that nothing was needed to complete the beauty of
the scene but a snow mountain in the distance, when lo! as if in
obedience to our call, a cloud that shrouded some far-off peaks slowly
lifted, revealing to us the shining crest of Monte Rosa. It really
seemed as if Monte Rosa had amiably thrown up that dazzling white
shoulder for our especial delectation. This evening at sunset it will be
touched with delicate pink.
I am writing this afternoon on one of the long tables so conveniently
placed on the upper deck of the little steamers upon which we made so
many excursions when you and I were here in June. The colors of sky,
mountain and lake are particularly lovely at this time of the day. Miss
Cassandra and Lydia have taken out their water colors, and are trying to
put upon paper the exquisite translucent shades of the mountains that
surround the lake. Lydia says that the wash of water colors reproduces
these atmospheric effects much more faithfully than the solid oils, and
she and our Quaker lady are washing away at their improvised easels,
having sent the children off for fresh glasses of water. While I write
to you, Walter lights his cigar and gives himself up to day dreams, and
I shall soon say _au revoir_ and devote myself to the same delightful,
if unprofitable, occupation, as this fairy lake is the place of all
others in which to dream and lead the _dolce far niente_ life of Italy.
And so we float about in boats, as at Venice, and think not of the
morrow. By we, I mean Walter, Lydia and myself, as the children and Miss
Cassandra are fatiguingly energetic. She has just reminded me that there
is something to do here beside gazing at these picturesque shores from a
boat, as there are numerous villas to be visited, to most of which are
attached gardens of marvellous beauty. We are passing one just now which
has a water gate, over which climbing geraniums have thrown a veil of
bloom. The villa itself is of a delicate salmon color, and the garden
close to the lake is gay with many flowers, petunias and pink and white
oleanders being most in evidence. The roses are nearly over, but other
flowers have taken their places, and the gardens all along the shore
make brilliant patches of color.
It is not strange that Bulwer chose this lake as the site of Melnotte's
_chateau en Espagne_, for surely there could not be found a more fitting
spot for a romance than this deep vale,
"Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,
Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold,
And whispering myrtles, glassing softest skies."
We were wondering what "golden fruits" were to be found on these shores
at this time, oranges and nespoli being out of season, when some boatmen
in a small fishing smack began to sing the "Santa Lucia" beloved by the
Neapolitans. A handsome, middle-aged woman seated near us, touched to
tears by the penetrating sweetness of the song, as it reached us across
the waters, and with the _camaraderie_ induced by the common hap of
travel, has just whispered in my ear that her husband proposed to her at
Bellagio. I fancied the happy pair floating about in a boat with a
beautiful brown and yellow sail, but the lady has destroyed my picture
by telling me that she was over in New York at the time. It appears that
a timid and somewhat uncertain admirer, the kind that we read about in
old-fashioned novels, as he strolled by the shores of the lake at
twilight, heard a boatman singing her favorite song and the melody of
"Santa Lucia" floating forth upon the still air, coupled with the beauty
of the scene, so wrought upon his feelings that he forthwith wrote her a
love letter by the flickering light of a _bougie_. This little incident
dates back to the more romantic if less comfortable days before
electricity came to light our way, even in remote places.
August 11th.
There are so many chateaux to be visited, and so many excursions on the
lake to be made that we could stay here a month and have a charming plan
for each day. This morning, we climbed a winding mountain path to the
Villa Serbelloni and wandered through the hillside garden, with its
grottoes and tunnels, to a natural balcony overhanging a precipice of
sheer rock that rises above the lake. From this height there is a view
of the whole northern part of Lake Como, with the Alps beyond, and here
one realizes the beauty of Bellagio which along the water front is but a
long line of shops. Situated on the extreme end of the point of land
that separates Lake Como from its southern arm, the Lago di Lecco, the
little town rises upon its terraces, and with its steep, narrow streets
and winding paths, is as picturesque as only an Italian hillside
_villagio_ can be.
On this Punta di Bellagio is situated one of the numerous villas of the
younger Pliny; another villa we saw, near the curious intermittent
spring, which he described in his letters. This Larian Lake, as the
ancients called it, is full of classic associations, and of those of a
later time connected with Italy's heroic struggle for independence, for
the Villa Pliniana was once the home of the heroic and beautiful
Princess Christina Belgiojoso, the friend of Cavour and Garibaldi, who
equipped a troop of Lombardy volunteers which she herself commanded,
until she was banished from Italy by order of the Austrian general.
Gazing upon the blue lake, on whose shining bosom the rocky shores were
so charmingly mirrored, to-day, it was difficult to believe that great
storms ever sweep over its still waters, yet habitues of this region
tell us that this Punta di Bellagio is the centre of furious storms, the
most violent coming from behind Monte Crocione, back of Cadenabbia, and
sweeping with great fury across the lake. Such a storm as this was the
memorable one of 1493, upon whose violence chroniclers of the time
delighted to descant. This particular tempest, which was probably no
more severe than many others, found a place in history and romance
because its unmannerly waters tossed about the richly decorated barge of
Bianca Sforza, whose marriage to Maximilian, King of the Romans, had
been solemnized with great magnificence, at the cathedral in Milan,
three days before. The bridal party set forth from Como in brilliant
sunshine, the shores crowded with men and women in holiday attire, and
the air filled with joyous music. Bianca's barge was rowed by forty
sailors, says Nicolo da Correggio, while her suite followed in thirty
boats, painted and decked out with laurel boughs and tapestries. This
gay _cortege_ reached Bellagio in safety, and after a night spent at a
castle on the promontory the bride and her attendants set sail toward
the upper end of the lake. Hardly had they left the shore when the
weather changed, and a violent storm scattered the fleet in all
directions. Bianca's richly decorated barge, with her fine
hundred-thousand-ducat trousseau aboard, was tossed about as mercilessly
as if it had been a fisherman's smack. The poor young Queen and her
ladies wept and cried aloud to God for mercy. Giasone del Maino, says
the chronicler, alone preserved his composure, and calmly smiled at the
terror of the courtiers, while he besought the frightened boatmen to
keep their heads. Happily, the tempest subsided toward nightfall, and
the Queen's barge, with part of her fleet, succeeded in putting back
into the harbor of Bellagio. The following day a more prosperous start
was made, and poor Bianca was saved from the terrors of the deep to make
another perilous journey, this time across the Alps on muleback, by that
fearful and cruel mountain of Nombray, as a Venetian chronicler
described the Stelvio Pass. She finally reached Innsbruck, where she was
joined, some months later, by her tardy and cold-hearted bridegroom.
We had seen Bianca's handsome bronze effigy in the Franciscan church at
Innsbruck, and so felt a personal interest in the fair young bride who
had been launched forth upon this matrimonial venture with so much pomp
and ceremony, her head crowned with diamonds and pearls, and her long
train and huge sleeves supported by great nobles of Milan. Foolish and
light-headed the young Queen doubtless was, and with some childish
habits which must have been annoying to her grave consort, many years
her senior,--Erasmo Brasca, the Milanese envoy, says that he was obliged
to remonstrate with her for the silly trick of eating her meals on the
floor instead of at table,--and yet she was a warm-hearted, affectionate
girl, and like many another princess of that time, she deserved a
happier fate than the loveless marriage that had been arranged for her.
Our memories are quite fresh about Bianca and her sorrows, because an
accommodating tourist, who had Mrs. Ady's "Beatrice d'Este" with her,
has loaned it to us for reading in the evenings--at least for as much
time as we can afford to spend in-doors when the out-door world is so
beguiling.
August 12th.
The man of the party and the children set forth early this morning for
a day's fishing on the lake, Walter having learned from a loquacious
boatman that trout of large size, frequently weighing fifteen pounds,
are to be caught here. We women, lacking the credulity of the true
brother of the angle, declined Walter's invitation, preferring a morning
at the Villa Carlotta to "the calm, quiet, innocent recreation of
angling," although we did encourage the fisher-folk by telling them that
we should return from sightseeing with keen appetites for their trout.
The villa, or chateau, which we visited to-day, situated on a hillside
directly opposite Bellagio, is not that in which Maximilian and Carlotta
passed some happy years before the misfortunes of their life overtook
them. That villa, as you may remember, is on the southern shore of Lake
Como, at Cernobbio. The fact of there being two Villas Carlotta on the
same lake is somewhat confusing, as will appear later. This one, whose
beautiful hillside gardens reach from Cadenabbia to Tremezzo, our
informing little local guidebook tells us, was long known as the Villa
Clerici, later as the Villa Sommariva, and finally, failing of heirs in
the Sommariva line, it was bought by the Princess Albert of Prussia, who
named the villa after her own daughter Charlotte.
We crossed from Bellagio to Cadenabbia in one of the little boats with
brown awnings and gay cushions, that add so much to the picturesqueness
of this fairy lake, and made our way to the Villa Carlotta, passing
through the richly wrought iron gates and up many steps to the terraced
garden where a fountain throws its feathery spray into the air. We were
all three in such high spirits as befit a party of pleasure seekers,
journeying through a land of enchantment on a brilliantly beautiful day,
for it must be admitted that in a downpour of rain Lake Como and its
shores are like any other places in the rain. Miss Cassandra, who is gay
even under dull skies and overhanging clouds, is gayer than usual
to-day, having donned a hat in which she takes great pride, a hat of her
own confection, which she is pleased to call a "Merry Widow," and an
indecorously merry widow it is, so riotous is it in its garnishings of
chiffon, tulle and feathers! Thus far Lydia has prevented her aunt from
appearing, in public, in her cherished hat; but here, in the lake
region, where the sun is scorching at midday, she rebels against Lydia's
authority, says she has no idea of having her brains broiled out for the
sake of keeping up a dignified and conventional appearance, and that
this hat is just the thing for water-parties, and is not at all extreme
compared with the peach-basket, the immense picture hat with its
gigantic willow plumes, the grenadier, and other fashionable
monstrosities in the way of headgear. Our jaunt to Cadenabbia appeared
to be the psychological moment for the inauguration of the merry widow,
and so I may say, truly and literally, that our Quaker lady is in fine
feather to-day, her head crowned with nodding plumes, and not a qualm of
conscience anent the far-away meeting and its overseers to cloud her
pleasure.
Whether in consequence of the charms of the merry widow, or because of a
certain distinctive individuality that belongs to her, Miss Cassandra
attracted even more attention than usual this morning. While we were
admiring the noble Thorwaldsen reliefs, that form the frieze of the
entrance hall, and the exquisite marble of Cupid and Psyche by Canova,
that is one of the glories of the Villa Carlotta, she, as is her
sociable wont, fell into conversation with two English-speaking women of
distinguished appearance. Before we left the chateau Miss Cassandra and
one of her new friends, a stately, beautiful woman, were exchanging
confidences and experiences with the freedom and intimacy of two
schoolgirls. These ladies, whom Miss Cassandra is pleased to call the
American countesses,--it having transpired in the course of conversation
that they were of American birth, Pennsylvanians in fact, who had
married titled Italians,--were courteous to us all, but they simply
fell in love with our Quaker lady, whose "thee's" and "thou's" seemed to
possess a magic charm for them.
Later on we were in some way separated from our new acquaintances amid
the intricacies of these winding hillside paths, where one may walk
miles, especially if the guide is clever and entertaining, and has an
eye to future _lira_ bestowed in some proportion to the time spent in
exploring the beauties of the garden, and to the fatigue attending the
tour. Italian dames of high degree, even if so fortunate as to have been
born in America, are not usually as good walkers as our untitled
countrywomen. These ladies, being no exception to the rule, had probably
yielded to the seductions of one of the rustic seats, placed so
alluringly under the shade of fine trees, while we wandered on from path
to path, stopping to admire an avenue of palms, a bamboo plantation, a
blue Norway spruce, a huge India-rubber tree, a bed of homelike American
ferns, or a clump of gorgeous rhododendrons, for the trees and flowers
of all climes thrive in this favored spot. A party of four or five men
and women had joined us, who talked to each other in German,
occasionally bowing to us and smiling, after the polite fashion of
foreigners, when the guide drew our attention to some rare flower or
plant, or to a charming vista of lake and mountain, seen through a frame
of interlacing branches and vines. An immense bed of cactus, on a sunny
slope, attracted the regard and admiration of our companions. Miss
Cassandra, who had seen the cactus in its glory on its native heath,
recognized the strangers' admiration even in an unknown language, and by
way of protest expatiated in her enthusiastic fashion upon the splendor
of the cactus of Mexico, the plumes of her hat waving in unison with her
eloquent words and gestures, while Lydia and I exchanged amused glances;
but our merriment was destined to be but short lived. The strangers, who
were standing near us, could not, of course, get the drift of what Miss
Cassandra was saying, but one of the party, a man of strongly marked
personality, evidently caught the word "Mexico," and pricked up his ears
when she repeated it. In an instant, a heavy hand was laid upon her
shoulder, while an angry voice hissed close to her ear:
"Mexican, Mexican! Pourquoi avez-vous tue l'Empereur Maximilian?"
Not comprehending this sudden arraignment, although she felt the heavy
hand upon her shoulder, heard the angry voice at her side, and saw the
unfriendly faces that surrounded her, our dear Miss Cassandra, by way of
making matters worse, repeated the only word that she had caught:
"Mexican! Yes, the Mexican cactus is much finer than this!"
This innocent remark seemed to irritate the Austrian beyond all bounds.
He repeated his question in French, still keeping his hand on the poor
lady's shoulder and gazing into her frightened face.
"Why did you kill the Emperor Maximilian?" gesticulating with his free
hand and drawing it across his throat. "Pourquoi lui avez-vous coupe la
gorge?"
Lydia and I were too shocked and dismayed to speak, and in that instant
of terror every sad and gruesome disaster, that had befallen unprotected
travellers in a strange land, passed in rapid review before our minds.
We turned to the guide for help, but he who had been so voluble and
instructive in botanical lore, in several languages, now held his tongue
in them all, appearing quite dull and uninterested, as if having no
understanding or part in the affair! Suddenly my voice came to me, and I
cried out in the best French that I could command: "The Emperor
Maximilian did not have his throat cut! He died like a soldier! He was
shot!"
"Well, then," exclaimed the Austrian, still gesticulating violently with
one hand and shaking Miss Cassandra's shoulder with the other, "Why did
you shoot him!"
Not having improved the situation by my remark, I turned again to the
guide, when, to our immense relief, the American countesses, most
opportunely, emerged from a shaded path. Miss Cassandra's pale,
frightened face, the despair written upon Lydia's and mine, the
stranger's excited tone and gestures, told half the story, while I
eagerly explained:
"These people are Austrians. They think that Miss Cassandra is a
Mexican, and they hate her on account of the assassination of the
Emperor Maximilian. She is frightened to death, but she does not
understand a word of what it is all about. Do explain!"
The stately lady, Countess Z---- by name, drew near, threw her arm
protectingly around Miss Cassandra, and turning to the Austrian, with
an air of command, ordered him to take his hand off her shoulder,
explaining in German (German had never sounded so sweet to my ears) that
this lady was an American citizen who had simply travelled in Mexico.
The man listened and withdrew his hand, looking decidedly crestfallen
when she added: "The American nation had nothing to do with the most
unfortunate sacrifice of your young prince; in fact, the government at
Washington made an effort to avert the disaster. His death was deplored
in America, and you must remember that the whole affair was in a large
measure instigated by the ambitious designs of Napoleon III, who broke
faith with Maximilian, failed to send him the troops he had promised
him, and cruelly abandoned him to his fate."
The Austrian bowed low and humbly apologized, adding something in an
undertone about "Here in the grounds of the chateau where Maximilian and
Carlotta had once lived, seemed no place to talk about Mexico."
"You are quite mistaken!" exclaimed the Countess. "This is not the Villa
Carlotta that once belonged to Maximilian. That is quite at the other
end of the lake. This chateau, long the property of the Sommariva
family, passed in 1843 into the hands of the Princess Charlotte of
Prussia, who named it after her daughter, another Carlotta, and I hope a
happier one than the poor Empress Carlotta."
Again the Austrian bowed and apologized, this time to Miss Cassandra,
who, from his softened voice and deferential manner, realized that
whatever deadly peril had menaced her was happily averted, and throwing
her arms around the Countess Z----'s neck, she exclaimed, "My dear
countrywoman! Thee has the face of an angel and, like an angel, thee has
brought peace to our troubled minds. But for the life of me I cannot
tell what I have done to make that German so angry!"
When Miss Cassandra had learned what was the head and front of her
offending, she begged the Countess to explain that she was a woman of
peace, that war was abhorrent to her and all of her persuasion, and
finally she quite won the Austrian's heart by telling him that she had
no admiration for that upstart Bonaparte family (Miss Cassandra is
nothing if not aristocratic); that for her part she liked
old-established dynasties, like the Hapsburgs, and had always
considered the marriage of the daughter of a long line of kings with the
self-made Emperor a great come down for Maria Louisa. Please remember
that these are Miss Cassandra's sentiments, not mine, and how the dear
Italian-American lady managed to translate them into good German and
keep her face straight at the same time, I know not; but the Austrian
evidently understood, as he became more profusely apologetic every
moment, and well he might be for, as Miss Cassandra says, "No amount of
bowing and scraping and apologizing could make up for the fright he had
given us." But she is the most forgiving of mortals, as you know, and an
_entente cordiale_ having been established, through the mediation of our
two American-Italian _diplomatistes_, the two recent foes were soon
exchanging courtesies and scaling mountain paths together, hand in hand,
smiling, gesticulating, quite _en rapport_, without a syllable of
language between them, Miss Cassandra's nodding plumes seeming to
accentuate her expressions of peace and good will. While our Quaker lady
was stepping off gaily, her late tormentor now her willing captive,
Lydia, usually so quiet and self-contained, suddenly collapsed upon the
nearest seat and went off in a violent attack of hysterics. One of the
Austrian women rushed off for a glass of water, while the countesses
ministered to her, in true story-book fashion, having with them a bottle
of sal volatile which seems to be an important part of the equipment of
every well-appointed foreign lady. And what do you think that heartless
Lydia said between her laughter and her sobs? "If only one of us had had
a kodak with us, to take a snapshot of Aunt Cassie with the angry
Austrian berating her! Nobody will ever believe the story when we get
back to America, and then it would lose half its point without the merry
widow!"
Of course we had tales of adventure to relate when reunited with our
family this evening. Walter warmly, and I believe with sincerity,
expressed his regret that he had not been with us, which regret was
probably all the more heartfelt because he had failed to catch the
fifteen pound trout or, indeed, I may add in all truthfulness, trout of
any size and weight.
II
AN ISLAND CHATEAU
PENSION BEAU-SEJOUR, STRESA, Wednesday, August 17th.
WE REACHED this enchanting spot by a most circuitous and varied route,
which I outline for you, as you may be coming this way some time. From
Bellagio we crossed over to Menaggio, on Monday after _dejeuner_, where
we took an electric tram which brought us to Porlezza in less than an
hour. Here we found a boat awaiting us in which we enjoyed a two hours'
sail on beautiful Lake Lugano. At Lugano, which we reached before six o
'clock, we were in Switzerland, as we learned when the customs officers
visited our luggage, with no benefit to themselves and little
disturbance to us, and again when we found our beds at the hotel
supplied with feather counterpanes--and I may venture to say it with all
my love for Italy--by a scrupulous and shining cleanliness that belongs
more to the thrifty Swiss than to the amiable and less energetic
Italians. Lugano is full of quaint corners, interesting narrow streets,
market wagons, drawn by oxen, and stalls and carts on all sides, filled
with curios and native wares that would tempt the most blase shopper.
Yesterday, being a market day when the peasants come in from the
surrounding country in their ox carts, and with their great panniers, or
_hottes_, on their backs, we found many delightful bits for our kodaks.
The children were especially interested in a woman who carried a pretty,
little young kid in her pannier, instead of the fruits and vegetables
that are usually to be seen in these great baskets, and a heavy load it
must have been! But these Swiss and Italian women are burden-bearers
from early childhood.
We needed a week instead of a day and night at Lugano, and let me advise
you and Allan not to travel on schedule time when you make your tour
through these lakes, as there are so many delightful side trips to be
made. Some pleasant Americans, whom we met at the hotel in Lugano, told
us that a day or two spent on the summit of Monte Generoso is well worth
while, as the view is one of the finest in Europe, embracing as it does
the chain of the Alps, the Italian lakes and the vast plains of
Lombardy as far as the Apennines. In addition to all this there are fine
woods and pasture lands upon this mountain top, and a hotel in which one
may sojourn in comfort, if comfort is to be considered when such
heavenly views are to be feasted upon.
We quitted Lugano after luncheon yesterday, having had time for only a
hurried visit to the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli and the famous
Luini frescoes. Another charming trip on the lovely Lago di Lugano
brought us to Ponte Tresa, from whence we journeyed by a steam tram
through an enchanting wild wood country, full of little hills and
rushing streamlets, to Luino. Do you wonder that Lisa calls this a fairy
journey? The change from car to boat and boat to car takes away all the
weariness of travel, and the varied beauties of lake and shore make this
an ideal trip, especially as we found ourselves transferred to another
boat at Luino which brought us straight to fairyland, here at Stresa.
The lights upon the many boats on the lake and in the hotels and villas
along the shore gave the little town a gala appearance, as if it were
celebrating our arrival, as Miss Cassandra suggested. Later on it
became humiliatingly evident that we had not been expected, our boat was
late, the cabs had all gone away, and it was with difficulty that we
secured enough conveyances for our party.
We drove many miles, so it seemed to us, by winding roads up a steep
hillside to this pension, where we finally found light, warmth, welcome
and good beds, of which last we were sorely in need. By morning light
the pension proves itself to be well named Beau-Sejour, as it is
delightfully situated on a hill above the lake, with a garden, which
slopes down to the town, full of oleanders and orange and lemon trees.
When I opened the _jalousies_ at my window, what should I see but dear,
snow-crested Monte Rosa and the rest of the Alpine chain, seeming quite
near in this crystal atmosphere, a perfect background for the
picturesque Borromean Islands, fairy islets in a silver lake!
"I really think that Maggiore is more beautiful than Como," I said,
reluctantly, for I have heretofore contended that Lake Como at Bellagio
is the most beautiful place on the face of the earth.
"Take what goods the gods provide you, Zelphine, and don't use up the
gray matter of your brain trying to find out which of these lakes you
like best," said Walter in his most judicial tone.
"Yes, but one really cannot help comparing these two lakes, and if we
give the preference to Maggiore we have Mr. Ruskin on our side, who
considers the scenery of Lake Maggiore to be the most beautiful and
enchanting of all lake scenery, so we read in a pleasant little book of
Richard Bagot's which we found on the drawing-room table, yet the author
says that for himself he has no hesitation in giving his vote in favor
of the Larian Lake for beauty of scenery and richness of historic
interest."
Despite his philosophy I truly think that the man of the party has left
his heart at Bellagio, as I heard him telling a brother angler, whom he
met at the boat landing, how fine he found the fishing there and that he
doubted the sport being as good at Stresa--at least for amateur
fishermen. The associations here are less inspiring than those of Como,
the presiding genius of Stresa being San Carlo Borromeo, whose thirst
for the blood of heretics gained for him the title of Saint. A great
bronze statue at Arona now proclaims his zeal for the Church. Miss
Cassandra, who has an optimistic faith in a spark of the divine in the
most world-hardened saint or sinner, reminds me of Carlo Borromeo's
heroic devotion to the sufferers from famine and the plague at Milan in
1570 and 1576. So, with a somewhat gentler feeling in our hearts toward
"the Saint," we turned our faces toward Isola Bella and its great
chateau, built by a later and more worldly-minded member of the
Borromean family, Count Vitaliano Borromeo. This chateau, which from the
lake side appears like a stronghold of ancient times, is fitly named the
Castello, and after admiring its substantial stone terrace and great
iron gates we were prepared for something more imposing than what we
found within. The large rooms, with their modern furniture and
paintings, some of them poor copies from the old masters, were strangely
out of harmony with the ancient exterior of the Castello; but they were
shown to us with great pride by the custodian, who must have found us
singularly unappreciative and lacking in enthusiasm, even when he
displayed a room in which the great Napoleon had once slept. When
Napoleon was here, and why, and whether he was here at all, does not
concern any of us especially, except Lydia, who having a turn for
history is always determined to find out how, why, when, and where. I am
glad that she does care, as her example is edifying to us all,
especially so to Christine and Lisa, who follow her about and ask
questions to their hearts' content, which she is never tired of
answering. The garden, we revelled in, and found it hard to believe that
the terrace, which rises to a height of one hundred feet, was once a
barren rock until Count Borromeo covered it with a luxuriant growth of
orange, olive, and lemon trees, cedars, oleanders, roses, camellias, and
every tree and plant that you can think of. It is really a bewilderingly
lovely garden, and we wandered through its paths joyously until we came
suddenly upon some artificial grottos at one end overlooking the lake.
These remarkable creations are so utterly tasteless, with masses of
bristling shellwork and crude, ungainly statues, that we wondered how
anything so inartistic could find a home upon Italian soil. The
children, however, found delight in the hideous grottos, were sure that
they had been robbers' dens, and fancied they heard the groans of
prisoners issuing from their cavernous openings. They were so
fascinated, as children always are by the mysterious and unknown, that
nothing but the pangs of hunger and promises of luncheon on a terrace
garden overlooking the lake reconciled them to leaving the garden and
the grottos.
[Illustration: A. Gebr. Wehrli, Photo.
ISOLA BELLA, LAKE MAGGIORE]
We tried to forget the monstrosities of the chateau garden and to
remember only the beauty and the rich luxuriance of its trees and the
many flowering vines that clambered all over the shellwork terraces, as
if striving to conceal their rococo ugliness. Nor is it difficult to
forget unsightly objects here, when we have only to raise our eyes to
behold a scene of surpassing beauty,--Isola Madre and Isola dei
Pescatori look but a stone's throw from us across the shining water, and
beyond a girdle of snow mountains seems to encircle the lake, our
beloved Monte Rosa, white as a swan's breast, dominating them all.
Despite the distracting beauty of the outlook from our cafe, on the
terrace of a very indifferent looking hostel, we enjoyed our luncheon of
Italian dishes, crowned by an _omelette aux confitures_ of such
superlative excellence that even my inveterate American was ready to
acknowledge that it was the best omelet he had ever eaten anywhere.
We shall need a whole morning for Isola Madre, whose gardens are said to
be even more beautiful than those of Isola Bella. The sporting tastes of
the man of the party naturally draw him toward the allurements of Isola
dei Pescatori, but thither we shall decline to accompany him, for
picturesque as it appears from the shore, it is, on a more intimate
acquaintance, said to rival in unsavoriness the far-famed odors of the
city of Cologne.
ORTA, August 19th.
From Stresa we made a short _detour_, in order to have a day and night
here on the Lago d'Orta, which although comparatively near Lake Maggiore
is not often included in the itinerary of the fast traveling tourist,
who usually hurries to Arona, Stresa, and Pallanza, which, beautiful as
they are, lack something of the restful charm of this miniature lake set
in the midst of a circle of well-wooded hills. After Como and Maggiore,
which are like inland seas, the Lago d'Orta with its pretty island of
San Giulio, all so small that one may see the whole picture at a glance,
is indescribably lovely. The waters here are said to be of a deeper
blue than anywhere else in Italy, probably because the lake is fed from
springs which issue from its rocky bed. The whole town of Orta, as well
as the lake, is a blaze of color with the gay awnings of its many
loggie, its masses of scarlet and pink geraniums, cactus and oleanders,
its fruit stalls laden with melons, peaches and tomatoes, or poma d'oro,
and its blue sky over all. We cannot imagine Orta under any but a clear
sky, as our day here has been one of dazzling brilliancy. But it was not
solely for its beauty that the man of the party brought us to Orta, as I
discovered when I looked over a little local guidebook last night, and
learned that the Lago d'Orta is famous for its fish, and abounds in
trout of large size, pike, perch, and the agoni, a delicate little fish
for which Lake Como is also noted. After glancing over this illuminating
guidebook, and recalling the fact that the catch at Stresa had been poor
the day before, we were not surprised to hear arrangements being made
for an early start this morning. After reading aloud some extracts from
the guidebook, Miss Cassandra said, quite seriously:
"For ways that are dark and tricks that are vain commend me to a
fisherman or hunter. With all that Izaak Walton was pleased to say about
fishing being 'a calm, quiet, innocent recreation,' I have known the
best of men, even as good men as Walter, descend to duplicity and even
to prevarication when it came to a question of fish or game. Not that I
regret for a moment Walter's bringing us here. Orta is so beautiful that
the end justifies the means; but he might have told us why we were
coming."
Despite the innate and total depravity of fisher folk, I yielded to
Walter's and the children's persuasions and joined the fishing party
this morning, and a delightful day I had, seated in the stern of the
boat under one of the little canopies that you see in all the pictures
of this region. Here, well screened from the sun, with books and work,
and the lovely lake and shore to gaze upon, the hours passed so quickly
that I was surprised when we were told that it was time to land on the
Island of San Giulio for our noon dejeuner. I was in the midst of
relating the interesting experiences of the missionary priest Julius,
who is said to have founded a church here as early as 390, when we were
nearing the lovely little island named for him. The children were
naturally delighted with the priest's fertility of resource, which, like
that of the mother in their favorite "Swiss Family Robinson," was equal
to every occasion.
Having resolved to found a sanctuary upon the island whose solitary
beauty, as it rested upon the shining bosom of the lake, appealed to him
as it does to us to-day, and finding no boatmen upon the shore willing
to convey him thither, on account of the hideous monsters, dragons, and
serpents of huge size then inhabiting the place, good Julius, nothing
daunted by so trifling an inconvenience as the lack of a boat, used his
long cloak as a sail, and his staff as a rudder, and thus equipped
allowed himself to be blown across to the island.
"Of course, we know that there is nothing new under the sun, but who
would have thought of finding traces of the first aeroplane here, in
this quiet spot, far from the haunts of men?"
This from the man of the party, while Lisa exclaimed impatiently: "Now,
don't stop the story! What did the good priest do when he landed on the
island? Did he kill the beasts with his big stick?"
"We never heard of the 'big stick' flourishing among these lakes," said
Walter, as he wound up his line, and I explained to the children that
the hideous monsters fled before the beautiful face of the messenger of
peace and swam across the water to the mainland. A delightful
confirmation of the story, the children found in the church, where they
were shown a huge bone that belonged to one of these self-same monsters.
"Very like a whale," said Walter, while we were further edified by a
sight of the silver and crystal shrine under which repose the bones of
St. Julius removed from the little old church to this one of the seventh
century, which is a perfect miniature basilica. This was explained to us
by a priest, in Italianized French of the most mongrel description,
translated by me and listened to by Christine and Lisa with eager faces
and wide-open eyes.
When we related our experiences to Miss Cassandra, who had in our
absence visited the twenty chapels on the mainland erected in honor of
St. Francis of Assisi, she shook her head, knowingly, and said, "Lydia
and I have heard a great many wonderful tales, too, but it is worth
everything to be a child and ready to swallow anything from a gumdrop to
a whale."
The little girls take so much more interest in churches and shrines than
we had expected that we are half regretting our plan to leave them in a
French school in Lausanne while we make our tour among the Chateaux of
the Loire. I can hear you say, "Why not take them to Tours, for the
French there?" We know that the French of Tours is exquisite, but they
have had quite as much travel as is good for them, and then they have
little friends at the school in Lausanne whom they wish to join. "And
after all," as Miss Cassandra says, "American French can always be
spotted, no matter how good it may be." We were very much amused over
the criticism of a little American boy who had been educated in Italy.
He said of an English lady's correct and even idiomatic Italian, "Yes,
it's all right; but she doesn't speak in the right tune." We have so
many tunes in our own language that we are less particular than the
French and Italians, who treat theirs with the greatest respect.
To-morrow we leave this charming spot with great reluctance. We shall
doubtless find architectural beauty in Touraine, but we shall miss the
glorious mountain and lake views and these indescribable atmospheric
effects that we delight in. But, as the man of the party says, with
masculine directness, "Having started out to see the Chateaux of the
Loire, had we not better push on to Touraine?"
You cannot appreciate the full magnanimity of this advice without
realizing that Orta is a place above all others to please a man's fancy,
and that the fishing is exceptionally good. Miss Cassandra has taken
back her caustic expressions with regard to the devious ways of fisher
folk, or at least of this especial fisherman, and so, in good humor with
one another and with the world in general, we set forth for Lausanne, by
Domodossola and the Simplon. We shall have a Sunday in Lausanne to drink
in Calvinism near its source; Monday we arrange about the children's
school, and set forth for Touraine on Tuesday, stopping in Geneva for a
day and night.
III
AN AFTERNOON AT COPPET
GENEVA, August 24th.
LIKE Hawthorne, our first feeling upon returning to Switzerland, after
our sojourn in Italy, was of a certain chill and austerity in the
atmosphere, a lack of heartiness, in sharp contrast to the rich feast of
beauty, the warm color and compelling charm of Italian towns. This
impression was accentuated by the fact that it rained yesterday at
Lausanne and that we reached Geneva in the rain. We had one clear day,
however, at Lausanne, upon which we made a pilgrimage to Chillon, to the
great delight of the _Kinder_. Miss Cassandra insisted that we should
take the children to see this most romantic and beautiful spot, because,
she says, it is out of fashion nowadays, like Niagara Falls at home, and
that it is a part of a liberal education to see the Castle of Chillon
and read Byron's poem on the spot, all of which we did. It is needless
to tell you that Christine and Lisa considered this day on the lake and
in and about Chillon the most interesting educational experience of
their lives. We were glad to leave them at the pension in Lausanne with
a memory so pleasant as this, and for ourselves we carry away with us a
picture of the grim castle reaching out into the blue lake and beyond
that almost unrivalled line of Alpine peaks, white and shining in the
sun. After this there came a day of rain, in which we set forth for
Geneva.
"We have not seen him for three days until to-day," said the _garcon_
who waited on us at the terrace cafe of the hotel this morning, with a
fond glance toward the snowy crest of Mont Blanc rising above enveloping
clouds. It would not have occurred to us to call this exquisite pearl
and rose peak _him_, as did the _garcon_, who was proud of his English,
and much surer of his genders than we ever hope to be in his language,
or any other save our own; but we were ready to echo his lament after a
day of clouds and rain. To be in these picturesque old towns upon the
shores of the Lake of Geneva, and not to see Mont Blanc by sunlight,
moonlight, and starlight is a grievance not lightly to be borne; but
when a glory of sunshine dispelled the clouds and Mont Blanc threw its
misty veil to the winds and stood forth beautiful as a bride, in shining
white touched with palest pink, we could only, like the woman of the
Scriptures, forget our sorrows for joy that such a day was born to the
world.
Days like this are rare in the Swiss autumn, and with jealous care we
planned its hours, carefully balancing the claims of Vevey, Yvoire,
picturesque as an Italian hillside town, Ferney, and Coppet. This last
drew us irresistibly by its associations with Madame de Stael and her
brilliant entourage, and we decided that this day of days should be
dedicated to a tour along the Cote Suisse of the lake, stopping at Nyon
for a glance at its sixteenth century chateau and returning in time to
spend a long afternoon at Coppet. The only drawback to this delightful
plan was that this is Wednesday, and according to the friendly little
guidebook that informs sojourners in Geneva how to make the best of
their days, Thursday is the day that the Chateau de Stael is open to
visitors. Learning, however, that the d'Haussonvilles were not at
present in residence, we concluded to take our courage, and some silver,
in our hands, trusting to its seductive influence upon the caretaker.
After a short stroll through the quaint old town of Coppet we ascended
the steep hill that leads to the Chateau de Stael. As we drew near the
entrance gate, Walter, manlike, retired to the rear of the procession,
saying that he would leave all preliminaries to the womenfolk, as they
always knew what to say and generally managed to get what they wanted.
Fortune favored us. We noticed several persons were grouped together in
the courtyard, and pushing open the gate, which was not locked, Lydia,
who if gentle of mien is bold of heart, inquired in her most charmingly
hesitating manner and in her Sunday best French whether we should be
permitted to enter. Upon this a man separated himself from the group and
approaching us asked if we very much wished to see the chateau, for if
we did he was about to conduct some friends through the premises and
would be pleased to include us in the party.