exclaimed Lydia, turning to Walter, the joy of conquest shining in her
blue eyes.
"Yes, and I kept out of it for fear of spoiling sport. Any caretaker who
could withstand the combined charms of you three must be valiant
indeed! I noticed that Zelphine put Miss Cassandra in the forefront of
the battle; she is always a winner even if she isn't up to the language,
and you did the talking. Zelphine certainly knows how to marshal her
forces!"
We all laughed heartily over Walter's effort to make a virtue of his own
masterly inactivity, and Miss Cassandra asked him if he had ever applied
for a diplomatic mission, as we gaily entered the spacious courtyard.
We noticed, as we passed on toward the chateau, the old tower of the
archives, which doubtless contains human documents as interesting as
those published by Count Othenin d'Haussonville about his pretty
great-grandmother when she was _jeune fille tres coquette_, with
numerous lovers at her feet. Behind the close-barred door of the tower
the love letters of Edward Gibbon to the village belle were preserved,
among them that cold and cruel epistle in which for prudential reasons
he renounced the love of Mademoiselle Curchod, whom he would "always
remember as the most worthy, the most charming of her sex."
Count d'Haussonville, who now owns Coppet, our guide informed us, is
not the grandson of Madame de Stael, as Lydia and I had thought, but her
great-grandson. Albertine de Stael married Victor, Duc de Broglie, and
their daughter became the wife of Count Othenin d'Haussonville, to whom
we are indebted for the story of the early love affair of his ancestress
with the historian of the Roman Empire. The sympathies of the reader of
this touching pastoral are naturally with the pretty Swiss girl, who
seems to have been sincerely attached to her recreant lover, although
she had sufficient pride to conceal her emotions. If Edward Gibbon found
excuse for himself in the reported tranquillity and gayety of
Mademoiselle Curchod, we, for our part, are glad that she did not wear
her heart upon her sleeve, there being other worlds to conquer. Indeed,
even then, several suitors were at Mademoiselle Curchod's feet, among
them a young parson,--her father being a pastor, young parsons were her
legitimate prey,--and still greater triumphs were reserved for her in
the gay world of Paris which she was soon to enter. As _dame de
compagnie_, Mademoiselle Curchod journeyed with Madame Vermenoux to the
French capital, and carried off one of her lovers, M. Necker, under her
very eyes. The popular tradition is that Madame Vermenoux was well tired
of M. Necker and of Mademoiselle Curchod also, and so cheerfully gave
them both her blessing, remarking with malice as well as wit: "They will
bore each other so much that they will be provided with an occupation."
It soon transpired that M. and Mme. Necker, far from boring each other,
were quite unfashionably happy in their married life, some part of which
was passed at Coppet, which M. Necker bought at the time of his
dismissal from office.
An hour of triumph came to Madame Necker later when Edward Gibbon
visited her in her husband's home in Paris. After being hospitably
invited to supper by M. Necker, the historian related that the husband
composedly went off to bed, leaving him _tete-a-tete_ with his wife,
adding, "That is to treat an old lover as a person of little
consequence."
The love affairs of the Swiss pastor's daughter, her disappointments,
her triumphs, and her facility for turning from lost Edens to pastures
new, would be of little interest to-day did they not reveal certain
common characteristics possessed by the lively blue-stocking, Susanne
Curchod, and her passionate, intense daughter, Anne Germaine de Stael.
The well-conducted Madame Necker, whose fair name was touched by no
breath of scandal, possessed all her life a craving for love, devotion,
and admiration, which were accorded to her in full measure. With the
mother, passion was restrained by fine delicacy and reserve, and her
heart was satisfied by a congenial marriage, while the impetuous and
ill-regulated nature of Germaine was thrown back upon itself by an early
and singularly ill-assorted union.
With many thoughts of the two interesting women who once lived in the
chateau we passed through the doorway into the hall, on whose right-hand
side is a colossal statue of Louis Seize, while on the left are
portraits of several generations of d'Haussonvilles. On the stairway are
numerous genealogical charts and family trees of the Neckers, doubtless
reaching back to Attila, if not to Adam, for strange as it may seem the
great Swiss financier was as much addicted to vain genealogies and
heraldic quarterings as a twentieth century American.
It was in the long library, with its many windows opening out upon a
sunny terrace, that we came upon traces of the presiding genius of the
chateau. Here are Madame de Stael's own books, the cases unchanged, we
were assured, except by the addition of new publications from time to
time. On a table, among the most treasured possessions of the devoted
daughter, is the strong box of M. Necker in which he kept his accounts
with the French Government when he sought to stem the tide of financial
disaster that was bearing the monarchy to its doom.
From this room instinct with the atmosphere of culture, a fit setting
for the profoundly intellectual woman who inhabited it, we stepped
through one of the long windows to the terrace which commands a glorious
view. In the distance, yet not seeming very far away in this clear air,
is that well-known group of which Mont Blanc is the central peak, with
the Dent du Geant and the Aiguilles du Glacier and D'Argentiere standing
guard over its crystalline purity. We had seen Mont Blanc and its
attendant mountains from the heights of Mont Revard, and knew its
majestic beauty as seen from Chamounix; but we all agreed that nothing
could be lovelier than these white peaks rising above the sapphire
lake, with the blue cloud-flecked sky over all. Yet, with this perfect
picture spread before her, Madame de Stael longed for the very gutters
of Paris, its sights and sounds, which were inseparably associated in
her mind with the joyous chatter of the salon to which she had been
introduced at an age when most children are in the nursery. Seated upon
a high chair in her mother's salon, little Anne Germaine Necker listened
eagerly to the discourses of the great men of her day. Listening was not
destined to be her _role_ in later years; but to pace up and down the
long drawing room at Coppet, with the invariable green branch in her
beautiful hands, uttering words that charmed such guests as Schlegel,
Sismondi, Bonstetten of Geneva and Chateaubriand. It was Chateaubriand
who said that the two magical charms of Coppet were the conversation of
Madame de Stael and the beauty of Madame Recamier.
Madame de Stael's library opens into her bedroom, and beyond this is the
charming little apartment dedicated to Madame Recamier. This small,
dainty room, with hand-made paper upon its walls of delicate green
decorated with flowers and birds, seemed a fit setting for the
flower-like beauty who occupied it, a lily that preserved its purity
amid the almost incredible corruption of the social life of the period.
Madame de Stael's own bedroom is filled with pictures, and souvenirs of
the _vie intime_ of one who with all her faults was dowered with a
limitless affection for her family and friends. Here is a marble bust of
the beautiful daughter Albertine in her girlhood, and on the right of
Madame de Stael's bed is a portrait of her mother, in water color
painted during her last illness, the fine, delicate old face framed in
by a lace cap. On the margin of this picture is written, "Elle m'aimera
toujours." Under this lovely water color is the same picture reproduced
in black and white, beneath which some crude hand has written in English
the trite phrase, "Not lost, but gone before."
In a glass case are Madame de Stael's India shawls, which, like
Josephine de Beauharnais and other women of the period, she seems to
have possessed the art of wearing with grace and distinction. One of
these shawls appears in the familiar portrait by David, which is in a
small library or living room _au premier_; this we reached by climbing
many stairs. It is quite evident that David was not in sympathy with his
sitter, as in this painting he has softened no line of the heavy
featured face, and illumined with no light of intellect a countenance
that in conversation was so transformed that Madame de Stael's listeners
forgot for the moment that she was not beautiful.
Quite near the portrait of the exile of Coppet, as she was pleased to
call herself, is one of Baron de Stael Holstein, in court costume,
finished, elegant, handsome perhaps, but quite insignificant. It is
surely one of the ironies of fate that the Baron de Stael is only
remembered to-day as the husband of a woman whom he seems to have looked
upon as his social inferior. In this living room is a large portrait of
M. Necker, indeed, no room is without a portrait or bust of the idolized
father, and here, looking strangely modern among faces of the First
Empire, is a charming group of the four daughters of the Count
d'Haussonville, the present owner of Coppet. Several portraits and busts
there are, in the drawing room, of beautiful Albertine de Stael, wife of
Victor, Duc de Broglie, whom Madame de Stael says that she loved for his
tenderness and sympathy.
In this spacious, homelike drawing room, furnished in the style of the
First Empire, and yet not too fine for daily use, we could imagine
Madame de Stael surrounded by her brilliant circle of friends, many of
whom had been, like herself, banished from the Paris that they loved.
She is described by Madame Vigee Lebrun, and other guests, as walking up
and down the long salon, conversing incessantly, or sitting at one of
the tables writing notes and interjecting profound or brilliant thoughts
into the conversation. "Her words," added Madame Lebrun, "have an ardor
quite peculiar to her. It is impossible to interrupt her. At these times
she produces on one the effect of an improvisatrice."
Ohlenschlager described the _chatelaine_ of Coppet as "living in an
enchanted castle, a queen or a fairy," albeit of rather substantial
proportions, it must be admitted, "her wand being the little green
branch that her servant placed each day by her plate at table." The time
of the Danish poet's visit was that golden period in the life of the
chateau when it was the _rendezvous_ of many of the savants of Germany
and Geneva. Into the charmed circle, at this time, entered Madame
Kruedener, that strangely puzzling combination of priestess and
coquette, whose Greuze face and mystic revelations touched the heart of
an Emperor. Standing in the long salon, which contains many portraits
and souvenirs of the habitues of Coppet, we realized something of the
life of those brilliant days, when the walls echoed to what Bonstettin
called "prodigious outbursts of wit and learning," and upon whose boards
classic dramas and original plays were acted, often very badly, by the
learned guests. Rosalie de Constant wrote that she trembled for her
cousin Benjamin's success in _Mahomet_, which _role_ he accepted with
confidence, while beneath the play at life and love the great tragedy of
a passionate human soul is played on to the end, for this is the period
of storm and stress, of alternate reproaches and caresses, from which
Benjamin Constant escaped finally to the side of his less exacting
Charlotte.
After spending some weeks in the company of a hostess who could converse
half the day and most of the night with no sign of fatigue, it is not
strange that Benjamin Constant sometimes found himself wearied by the
mental activity of Coppet, where "more intellect was dispensed in one
day than in one year in many lands," or that Bonstettin said that after
a visit to the chateau, "One appreciated the conversation of insipid
people who made no demand upon one's intellect." And brilliant as was
that of the hostess, her guests doubtless hailed as a relief from mental
strain occasional days when she became so much absorbed in her writing
that she ceased for a while to converse, and they were free to wander at
will through the beautiful park, or to gather around the Recamier sofa,
still to be seen in one corner of the salon, where the lovely Juliette
held her court.
Madame Recamier, like Benjamin Constant, Sismondi, and many other
distinguished persons who had incurred the displeasure of Napoleon,
found what seems to us a gilded exile at Coppet in the home of the
Emperor's arch-enemy. The close friendship of Germaine de Stael and
Juliette Recamier, even cemented as it was by the common bond of
misfortune, is difficult to understand. That Madame de Stael kept by her
side for years a woman whose remarkable beauty and sympathetic charm
brought out in strong contrast her own personal defects, presupposes a
generosity of spirit for which few persons give this supremely
egotistical woman credit. She always spoke of Madame Recamier in
rapturous terms, and her "belle Juliette" and her "dear angel" seems to
have been free under the eyes of her hostess to capture such noble and
learned lovers as Mathieu de Montmorency, Prince Augustus of Prussia,
Ampere, and Chateaubriand. It was only when that ill-named Benjamin
Constant allowed his unstable affections to wander from the dahlia to
the lily that Germaine de Stael's anger was aroused against her friend.
For a short period Madame Recamier ceased to be the "belle Juliette" and
the "dear angel" of the mistress of Coppet until, with a truly angelic
sweetness of temper and infinite tact, she made Germaine understand that
she had no desire to carry off her recreant lover and so the friendship
continued to the end.
If it is difficult to understand the long friendship of Madame de Stael
and Juliette Recamier, it is quite impossible to follow with any
comprehension or sympathy the various loves of Germaine. One can perhaps
understand that after Benjamin Constant had escaped from her stormy
endearments she could turn for solace to young Albert Rocca, and yet
why did she still cling to Benjamin's outworn affection, and then, with
naive inconsistency, declare that he had not been the supreme object of
her devotion, but that Narbonne, Talleyrand and Mathieu de Montmorency
were the three men whom she had most deeply loved?
Lydia said something of this, as we passed through the gate of the
chateau, upon which an elderly woman, who had been one of the guide's
party, turned to us and said abruptly, "Artistic temperament! Men have
been allowed a monopoly of all the advantages belonging to the artistic
temperament for so many years that it seems only fair to cover over the
delinquencies of women of such unquestioned genius as Germaine de Stael
and George Sand with the same mantle of charity."
These words of truth and soberness were spoken in a tone of authority,
almost of finality, and yet in the stranger's eyes there shone so kindly
and genial a light that far from being repelled by them, we found
ourselves discussing with her the loves of poets and philosophers as we
descended the steep hill that leads from the chateau to the garden cafe
at its foot. Here, led on by the pleasant comradeship induced by
travel, we continued our discussion over cups of tea and buns, while
Mont Blanc glowed to rose in the sunset light, and we wondered again how
Madame de Stael could ever have looked upon the shores of this beautiful
lake as a "terrible country," even if it was for her a "land of exile."
You will think that we have had enough pleasure and interest for one
afternoon, but you must remember that this is our one day in Geneva, and
although we have all been here before, we have never seen Ferney. Walter
discovered, in looking over the local guidebook, that this is the day
for Ferney, and that it is open until six o'clock. He found that we had
an hour after reaching the boat landing. Walter secured an automobile
and we set forth for the home of Voltaire, which is really very near
Geneva.
It was interesting to see the old philosopher's rooms and the gardens,
from which there is an extended view of the lake and mountains; but most
impressive after all is the little church which he built in his old age,
with the inscription on one end:
DEO EREXIT VOLTAIRE MDCCLXI
Walter has suddenly conceived the idea that there are some valuable
coins well worth a visit in the Ariana Museum which we passed on the way
to Ferney, so we have decided to gain a half day here by taking an
afternoon train to Dijon and stopping there over night. When you next
hear from me it will be from Mary Stuart's pleasant land of France and
probably from the Paris beloved of Germaine de Stael. Until then, _au
revoir, ma belle_.
IV
EN ROUTE FOR TOURAINE
HOTEL DE LA CLOCHE, DIJON, August 26th.
WE STOPPED at this interesting old town last night in order to break the
long journey from Geneva to Paris. Dijon, which has only been to us a
station to stop in long enough to change trains and to look upon
longingly from the car windows, proves upon closer acquaintance to be a
town of great interest. After a morning spent among its churches and
ancient houses and in its museum, we were quite ready to echo the
sentiments of an English lady whom we met at the _table d'hote_, who
spends weeks here instead of days, and wonders why travellers pass Dijon
by when it is so much more worth while than many of the places they are
going to. So much is left of the ancient churches and buildings to
remind one of the romantic and heroic history of Dijon, that it seems
eminently fitting that we should make this stop-over, a visit to the
capital city of Burgundy being a suitable prelude to a sojourn among
the chateaux of the French kings, who had their own troubles with these
powerful lords of the soil. The present Hotel de Ville was once the
palace of the Dukes of Burgundy. Little is now left of the original
building with the exception of the ancient kitchens, and these, with
their half-dozen great ventilating shafts, give one the impression that
those doughty old warriors had sensitive olfactories.
In the Cathedral of Saint Benigne, who seems to be the patron saint of
Dijon, are the remains of the great Dukes of Burgundy, although their
magnificent tombs are in the museum. The Cathedral of Saint Benigne has
a lovely apse and other architectural charms; but Notre Dame captivated
us utterly, so wonderful are its gargoyles representing man and beast
with equal impartiality, their heads and shoulders emerging from a rich
luxuriance of sculptured foliage, the whole indescribably beautiful and
grotesque at the same time. It is not strange that the carved figure of
a plump and well-fed Holy Father, with his book in one hand and food in
the other, sitting beside an empty-handed and mild-faced sheep, should
have called forth such lines as the following from some local poet,
evidently intended for the remarks of the sheep:
"LES ESPRITS-FORTS.
Volontiers les humains s'apellent fortes-tetes
Qui la plupart du temps ne sont que bonnes betes
Et qui juste en raison de leurs etroits esprits
De leurs maigres pensers sont beaucoup trop epris."
Other decorators and sculptors of these ancient buildings have, like Fra
Lippo Lippi, worked their own quaint conceits and humorous fancies into
their canvases and marbles, and we to-day are filled with wonder at
their cleverness, as well as over the excellence of their art, so
exquisite is the carving of leaf and branch and vine. One would need to
come often to the Galerie des Tours of Notre Dame to fully enjoy it, and
other beauties of this church, whose tower is crowned by a curious clock
with moving figures, called Jacquemart, after the Flemish mechanician
Jacques Marc who designed it. The Jacquemart, with his pipe in his
mouth, stolidly strikes the hours, undisturbed by the cold of winter or
the heat of summer, as some Burgundian poet of the sixteenth century has
set forth in a quaint rhyme.
Near the cathedral is a charmingly picturesque building called La Tour
de Bar, where Rene d'Anjou, Duke of Bar and Lorraine, was imprisoned
with his children. In the museum, which possesses many treasures in
painting and sculpture, we saw the magnificently carved tombs of
Philippe le Hardi and Jean Sans-Peur. Here, with angels at their heads
and lions couchant at their feet, the effigies of these Dukes of Valois
rest, surrounded by a wealth of sculpture and decoration almost
unequalled. It would be well worth stopping over night at Dijon if only
to see the magnificent tombs of these bold and unscrupulous old warriors
and politicians. Jean Sans-Peur planned and accomplished the
assassination of Louis d'Orleans and was himself overtaken by the
assassin a few years later. The tomb of the boldest and bravest of them
all, Charles le Temeraire, you may remember, we saw at Bruges. The lion
at the feet of the last Duke of Burgundy, with head upraised, seems to
be guarding the repose of his royal master, who in his life found that
neither statecraft nor armies could avail against the machinations of
his arch-enemy, Louis XI.
Beautiful and impressive as are these tombs, the true glory of Dijon is
that the great Bossuet was born here and St. Bernard so near, at
Fontaine, that Dijon may claim him for her own; and Rameau, the
celebrated composer; Rude, whose sculptures adorn the Arc de l'Etoile in
Paris; Jouffroy, and a host of other celebrities, as we read in the
names of the streets, parks, and boulevards, for Dijon, like so many
French cities and towns, writes her history, art, literature, and
science on her street corners and public squares, thus keeping the names
of her great people before her children.
When we were studying routes in Geneva yesterday it seemed quite
possible to go to Tours by Bourges and Saincaize, and thus secure a day
in Bourges for the cathedral of Saint Etienne, which is said to be one
of the most glorious in France, and not less interesting to see the
house of the famous merchant-prince who supplied the depleted coffers of
Charles VII, Jacques Coeur, the valiant heart to whom nothing was
impossible, as his motto sets forth. At the tourist office we were told
that such a crosscut to Tours was quite out of the question, impossible,
and that the only route to the chateau country was via Paris. It seemed
to us a quite useless waste of time and strength to go northward to
Paris and then down again to Tours, which is south and a little west,
but having no knowledge on the subject and no Bradshaw with us to prove
our point, we accepted the ultimatum, although Miss Cassandra relieved
her feelings by saying that she did not believe a word of it, and that
tourist's agents were a stiff-necked and untoward generation, and that
she for her part felt sure that we could cut across the country to
Saincaize and Bourges. However, when we hear the questions that are
asked these long-suffering agents at the tourist offices by people who
do not seem to understand explanations in any language, even their own,
we wonder that they have any good nature left, whatever their birthright
of amiability may have been. Here, in Dijon, we find that we could have
carried out our charming little plan, and Walter, realizing my
disappointment, suggests that we take an automobile from here to
Saincaize and then go by a train to Bourges and Tours. This sounds quite
delightful, but our Quaker lady, having turned her face toward the gay
capital, demurs, saying that "We have started to Paris, and to Paris we
had better go, especially as our trunks have been sent on in advance,
and it really is not safe to have one's luggage long out of one's sight
in a strange country." This last argument proved conclusive, and we
yielded, as we usually do, to Miss Cassandra's arguments, although we
generally make a pretence of discussing the pros and cons.
PARIS, August 29th.