Châteaux of Ferney and Coppet
Voltaire’s Home, Church, Study, Garden, Relics—Literary Court of de Staël—Mementos—Famous Rooms, Guests—Schlegel—Shelley—Constant—Byron—Davy, etc.—De Staël’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 Château Voltaire is to many visitors one of the chief objects of interest in the neighborhood of Geneva.
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 Wagnière. 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 cháteau 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.
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 protégé 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.
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 littérateurs, 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 château 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 littérateurs who had home or haunt by Leman’s margins Madame de Staël, by her long residence and many incidents of her career, seems most closely associated with this region of delights. The château 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 mediæval château one of the most interesting spots on earth. Exiled from the society of Paris, de Staël 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.”
Home of de Staël
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 château between rows of venerable trees beneath which de Staël 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 Récamier, 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 Staël’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 Staël 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 Oehlenschläger’s “Hakon Jarl.” De Staël 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.” Schäffer’s portrait of her daughter hangs near by, displaying a face of striking beauty, and a picture of Madame Necker, de Staël’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 Staël’s first husband, of her son Auguste, of Schlegel, and of other literary confrères, 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 Staël’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 Staël, which deepened into love.
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, littérateurs, scientists, men of largest thought, of highest rank. Here Récamier 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 Staël 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 Krüdener, author of “Valérie,” 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, Ampère, Byron, Shelley, Montmorency, Wynona, Tieck, Müller, Candolle, de Sergey, Prince Augustus, and scores of others.
Literary Court and Courtiers
This room, where that galaxy assembled, has witnessed the most wonderful intellectual séances of the century. We may imagine something of the brilliancy of an assembly of such minds presided over by de Staël,—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 Staël 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 naïvely confessed by Bonstetten, one of the lights of these séances, 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 Staël 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 château then read their compositions—Bonstetten’s “Latium” often put the company to sleep—and eagerly sought de Staël’s suggestions; “the lesser lights were glad to borrow warmth and lustre from the central sun.” Châteauvieux 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.
Byron, Shelley, etc.
The place was never more animated than in the last summer of her life, when Byron and Shelley used to cross the lake to join the circle in this room. De Staël had met Byron in London during the ephemeral “Byron-madness,” and now, in his social exile, her doors were freely open to him: his letters testify “she made Coppet as agreeable as society and talent can make any place on earth.” Here he first saw “Glenarvon,” a venomous attack upon him which seems to have served no purpose save to illustrate the aphorism about “a woman scorned,” its authoress having been notoriously importunate for Byron’s favor, even attempting, it was said, to enter his apartments in male attire. In this salon Mrs. Hervey, the novelist, feigned to faint at Byron’s approach: from the balcony outside these windows, where de Staël and her father stood and saw Napoleon’s army cross the Swiss frontier, Byron looked upon the scene which inspired some of his divinest stanzas. The château was a busy place in those years: a guest writes from here, “In every corner one is at a literary task; de Staël is writing ‘Exile,’ Auguste and Constant a tragedy, Sabran an opera, Sismondi his ‘Republics,’ Bonstetten a philosophy, and Rocca his ‘Spanish War.’”
One noble chamber hung with dim tapestries is that erst occupied by Récamier: it had before been the sick-room of Madame Necker and the scene of her husband’s loving care of her, which de Staël so touchingly records. The chamber of de Staël is near by, its windows overlooking her sepulchre: here she wrote the books which made her fame; here she instructed her children, their Sabbath lessons being from the devout treatises of her father and à Kempis’s “Imitation of Christ,” the book she read in her own dying hours. A smaller room, looking out upon the park, the terraces of Jura, and the white walls of Lausanne, was shared by Constant and Bonstetten. In the tower above have been found letters written by Gibbon to his fiancée, who became the mother of de Staël: they have been published by the grandson of de Staël, and show that the conduct of the great “Decliner and Faller” toward the then poor girl was thoroughly selfish and unscrupulous.
Tomb of Necker and de Staël
The rooms are renovated and the place is offered for rent, but nothing is destroyed. The formal park at the side of the château is little changed: along yonder wooded aisle and upon this allée between prim patches of sward the de Staël walked with her guests in the summers of long ago; upon the seat beneath this coppice, beside this placid pool, or on the margin of yonder brooklet from the top of Jura, they lingered in brilliant converse till the stars came out one by one above the darkening mountains. These—the mute, soulless inanimates—remain, while the illustrious company that quickened and glorified them all has vanished from human ken. Some rods distant from the château, shaded by a sombre grove and bounded by a hoary wall, is the picturesque chapel in which Necker is laid with his wife, to whose tomb he, for many years, daily came to pray. In the same crypt the mortal part of de Staël rests at his feet; the portal was walled up at her burial and eye hath not since seen her sepulchre. A stone which marks the grave of her son Auguste, and lies on the threshold of that sealed portal, is fittingly inscribed, “Why seek ye the living among the dead?”
Beyond the closed gate we pause for a parting view of the scene, now flooded with sunshine, and as we leave the place we carry thence that resplendent vision embalmed in a memory that will abide with us forever. As I write these closing lines I see again that summer sky, cloudless save for the fleece floating above Jura like that which the bereaved Necker fancied was bearing the soul of his wife to paradise. I see again the glimmering water; the mountains with their tiaras of snow, sending back the sunbeams from their shining peaks like reflections from the pearly gates that enclose the Celestial City; and, amid this sublime beauty, the gleaming sycamores that sway above the tomb of “the incomparable Corinna.”
The End