Author Archives: Claudia Suzan Carley

Winchester Cathedral, Jane Austen’s Resting Place

When Jane Austen died in 1817, she was not famous. She was buried as a gentlewoman beneath the floor in the north aisle of the nave of Winchester Cathedral, with no mention of her as a writer. She had published four of her great novels while living at Chawton, but readers did not know her name. The title page read, “By a Lady.”

I finally made a visit last spring, after visiting Jane’s cottage home in Chawton and the “great house” that played a big part in her most productive years.

No doubt Jane knew the medieval cathedral well, having lived the last eight years of her life in nearby Chawton Village. She spent the last eight weeks or so of her life in Winchester, undergoing treatment that didn’t work. (Theories about her illness include Addison’s disease and Hodgkin’s lymphoma, among others).

Jane lies underneath the stone floor. Her brothers James and Henry arranged the burial. Her tombstone refers to “the extraordinary endowments of her mind,” but the emphasis is on her qualities as a proper Christian gentlewoman, not her genius as a writer and satirist. Only four people attended Jane’s brief funeral service in 1817. She has much more company now.

I’d like to think Jane was familiar with the Holy Sepulchre Chapel.

The chapel’s wall and ceiling paintings date from the 12th and early 13th centuries.

Even more, I’d like to think Jane once stood and gazed up at the exquisite ceiling of the Guardian Angels Chapel, dating from around 1240, by Master William, the King’s painter.

That would have been King Henry III. The ceiling was restored in 1959, so Jane may not have seen it at its best. But I like to think the guardians angels watch over her anyway.

The cathedral has a nice display about Jane on banners and signs in the north aisle.

One sign explains that by around 1850, as Jane’s identity as a writer came out and her fame began to grow, visitors were coming just to see her grave.

In 1870 Jane’s nephew published a memoir about her and used the proceeds for a brass plaque on the wall near her tomb.

By 1900, a public subscription paid for a memorial window above the brass plaque.

Aside from the Jane connection, Winchester is a fascinating cathedral. The building was finished and consecrated in 1093, after all. It still functions as a church, and it’s possible to wander without crowds of tourists.

The beautiful illuminated Winchester Bible, used by the 60 to 80 monks in residence in the 1100s, is worth a visit all by itself.

I especially like the huge heavy “flying” buttresses that hold up the cathedral walls from outside. They form a sort of secular cloister which locals use all the time. I like to imagine Jane attending a service, then hurrying home with a new plot twist or turn of phrase. Maybe, for instance, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

Jane lives on!

Chawton, Jane Austen’s Great House

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Happy Birthday, Jane Austen! Jane was born on December 16, 1775. She lived the last eight years of her too-short life in the famous cottage on the grounds of Chawton House, where she wrote and polished four of her six surviving novels. Jane’s clergyman father had died, leaving his family dependent on the kindness of relatives. But thanks to a quirk in the family’s fortunes, Jane’s brother was able to provide a home for his impoverished mother and his two spinster sisters, Jane and Cassandra.

The cottage is a pilgrimage site for Jane’s admirers (including me). But until 2015, we could not visit the “great house” where Jane and her family were grateful guests.

From the cottage in Chawton Village, Jane often walked up the country lane, past the village church, on her way to visit her brother.

Chawton House must have seemed imposing. How did all this come about?

Wonder of wonders, Jane’s brother Edward had won the 18th-century version of the lottery by being adopted out of the Austen family as a child. This was a great stroke of luck, but it made perfect sense to everyone concerned. As Jane would be the first to explain, people with any wealth to speak of really wanted a male heir to inherit their property and keep it in the family name. Edward fit the bill for the Knight family.

Above is Edward’s silk suit, which he wore as a very lucky adopted teenager, around 1782.

By adoption, Edward acquired the wealthy ancestors above, Jane and Thomas Knight, parents of his adoptive father Thomas. Thomas and his wife had no children of their own. So Edward Austen, son of a cleric of modest means, became Edward Knight and eventually inherited several grand homes and a lot of valuable property.

But nothing lasts forever. Over the years after Edward’s time, the house had various owners and proceeded to fall apart, as neglected houses do.

In 1992 the American businesswoman and philanthropist Sandra Lerner bought the lease and began pouring money into restoration.

In 2003, the house opened as a center for the study of early women’s writing. The house is still a study center and hosts exhibits.

Finally, in 2015, the house opened to tourists like me. (Weddings are also held there, no doubt tempting a lot of Jane-admiring brides).

Today, the house is charmingly old-fashioned, with a bewildering floor plan, creaky old floors, and cozy corners perfect for settling in with a good book.

It’s easy to imagine Jane, her mother and sisters at the dining table.

The house reminds me of my very favorite Jane Austen movie, the 1995 version of Persuasion starring Amanda Root and Ciaran Hinds.

The novel is set eight years after Anne Elliot has been persuaded by a well-meaning friend to break her engagement to the love of her life, Captain Frederick Wentworth, because he has no money or connections. Anne also refuses the proposal of a perfectly nice but uninspiring young squire who then marries her sister. Anne is destined to be a sad spinster.

But Captain Wentworth suddenly reappears as a now-rich man looking for a wife. Of course his pride has been hurt, so Anne is out of the question. Until this and this and this happens, and we’re off into the story. Much of the action takes place in a manor house very much like Chawton House, where Anne is often a guest, just as Jane was at Chawton. I think Anne Elliot has a lot in common with her creator, Jane Austen.

As in all of Jane Austen’s novels, there’s sharp satire of the British class system, the precarious financial position of most women, and the unavoidable importance of marrying wisely. There’s unbearable suspense hinging on the timely arrival of a secret love letter. There’s the tremulous joy of a long-awaited kiss. There’s true love at last for the intelligent woman who stubbornly waits for it, willing to be poor rather than suffer through a loveless marriage. It’s a fine, fine movie.

And Chawton House is a fine place to imagine Jane’s life as a spinster with a whole semi-secret life as a writer of genius.

https://chawtonhouse.org/

George Sand and Friends at the Musée de la Vie Romantique

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Musee de la Vie Romantique is a charming, peaceful oasis at the foot of Montmartre in Paris. (Well, that’s what it was on a sunny spring day the other time I visited. On a recent rainy November day, it was dreary outside. People stood around wondering why they were there. The cheery garden cafe is shuttered and the chairs sit in puddles). Still, it’s worth a stop, especially since it’s free, with donations welcome.

On the way, I passed the Moulin Rouge, THE nightlife spot in Romantic times. From what I can see beyond the tour buses, it doesn’t look too appealing today. Plus I read that animals are used in the current show, in ways a lot of people find distressing. I’ll salute, but pass.

Art Scheffer, portrait by Thomas Phillips, c. 1840

The house, built in 1830, was the rented home of the painter Ary Scheffer, who was well-known at the time and had royal connections. Scheffer hosted weekly salon evenings attended by everybody who was anybody in the Romantic art, literature and music world.

Le Grand Atelier d’Ary Scheffer, Arie Johannes Lamme, 1851

Scheffer’s studio must have been a nice artistic hangout for his friends and students.

George Sand, bust by Auguste Clesinger, 1847

George Sand, one of the most notorious and talented women of her day, attended regularly with the most famous of her many lovers, the composer Frederic Chopin. Her real name was Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin. Her friends called her Aurore. Though her family was not aristocratic, there was some money, a good education, and entree into high social circles.

George Sand, portrait by Charles Louis Gratia, 1835, Public Domain

She married a Baron and had two children, but aristocratic life was way too confining for her. She ran off with her two children and famously started dressing in men’s clothing, which she considered more practical than the full skirts and flounces of the day. Dressing as a man also let her enter places where women were not allowed, like raffish cafes in Montmartre (where she scandalously smoked in public).

Here she is, presiding over her salon (furnished by her heirs after the house became a museum, with portraits, possessions and mementoes). This portrait is by August Charpentier, 1838. She was striking and charismatic no matter how she was dressed. The poet Alfred de Musset, one of her lovers, said she was “the most womanly woman.” To support and also to amuse herself, she began writing novels, essays, criticism and memoirs. Her colorful life gave her plenty of material, and she was not particularly shy about sharing all her experiences. Note to self: find a good biography, and also her letters.

Frederic Chopin was a regular at the house during his stormy 8-year liaison with George Sand. A plaster cast of Chopin’s left hand reaches wistfully for a plaster cast of George Sand’s right hand in a glass case, along with a pen and some love letters.

Daguerreotype of Frédéric Chopin, Bisson, c. 1849, Public Domain

Poor Chopin suffered from tuberculosis and died at the age of 39. I wonder whether his affair with George Sand lengthened or shortened his life. Note to self: find good biography and letters.

Regulars at the house also included Chopin’s friend the composer Franz Liszt, opera composer Gioacchino Rossini, and the painters Eugene Delacroix and Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, among many other artists of the Romantic Period. Later on, Charles Dickens, Ivan Turgenev, and Charles Gounod also stopped by often.

The actress Sarah Bernhardt was a regular, too. Here she is costumed as a character in a play based on one of George Sand’s works.

The house became a museum in 1982. Heirs of George Sand donated much of the contents.

The audioguide is worthwhile, but not really necessary because there’s a free little guidebook.

In the summer months, there is a pretty tea garden. The food is nothing special, but it’s a fine place to sit and soak up the atmosphere of La Vie Romantique.

Naturally, George Sand has been the subject of plenty of books and movies. My favorite is the 1991 movie Impromptu, often streaming on Netflix. I’ve seen it before, but I’ll be watching it again. Who can resist Judy Davis as George Sand and Hugh Grant as Frederic Chopin, right at the beginning of their tumultuous affair?

Actually I see that I have it on DVD! Reading the jacket, I remember the rest of the cast: Emma Thompson as a duchess, Mandy Patinkin as Alfred de Musset, Julian Sands as Franz Liszt, Bernadette Peters as the long-suffering wife of Liszt, Ralph Brown as Eugène Delacroix, and the list of treats goes on. James Lapine was the director.

I’m off! If anyone needs me, I’ll be in mid-1800s Paris.

Paris Snapshots, November 2018

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Paris is always old and always new. The real sight is just the city itself, where there’s stunning architecture and art at every turn. Medieval Notre Dame Cathedral? It never fails to thrill.

In November, it’s not crowded inside the cathedral. The present structure was built between 1163 and 1345. It still feels deeply spiritual.

A Paris Museum Pass is the best bargain. For one thing, there’s no waiting in ticket lines. For about $15-20 per day, depending on number of days chosen, we take our heavy-duty culture in small doses. The Louvre is not intimidating (or exhausting) if we duck in for only an hour or two a day.

“La Nymphe au Scorpion,” Lorenzo Bartolini, 1777

The statue above? That’s me, checking my sore feet while looking out at I. M. Pei’s spectacular pyramid in the courtyard. (But we never stand in the horrendous lines at the pyramid entrance. It’s much better to go in through the underground shopping center, the Carousel du Louvre).

Goddess Nemesis, Egyptian, 2nd Century B. C.

We see way more by making just short forays into the Louvre. I especially liked the statue of a goddess, only about two feet high, in a little hallway alcove. She is Nemesis. The caption explains (I think) that she punished any kind of excess with an implacable reversal of fortune. She’s casually holding a little Wheel of Fortune. I can think of people who could use a reminder not to do anything to excess. Of course after eating excessive French pastries, I could use a reminder myself.

Puzzlement: Nemesis doesn’t look Egyptian. And did the Egyptians even have a concept of a wheel of fortune? I’ll always have things to learn. (Most of the captions in the Louvre are in French only, which means I probably get a lot of things wrong).

In November, even the crowd-stopping biggies have very few people standing around them, especially on the Wednesday and Friday evenings that the museum is open late. Here’s the Winged Victory of Samothrace, standing in her very own grand gallery–and without people jostling to take selfies.

I’ve never before seen the Mona Lisa with a crowd only two or three deep in front of her. Usually the entire room is a jostling mass of humanity, and nobody is even looking at all the other fine paintings on its walls.

The Louvre now has nifty and free glass lockers for visitors to stash their stuff. In high season, I imagine these fill up. But we had our pick.

The Orsay also takes the Museum Pass. And special exhibits are always included. This trip, we had a couple of leisurely looks at Picasso’s Blue and Pink periods. I’m not the biggest fan of Picasso, but I liked this exhibit. That’s a detail from the exhibit’s centerpiece, “La Vie,” 1900.

Detail from “La Balancoire,” Pierre-August Renoir, 1876

I do mostly like Renoir, although I think he was terrible at painting hands, and some of his women look like they were painted by someone way more nearsighted even than I am.

There was a nice exhibit about Renoir and Jean Renoir, his film-making son. Jean took inspiration from the joyous life his dad portrayed in his paintings. It was fun to watch old film clips next to the paintings.

The regular galleries of the Orsay were wonderfully uncrowded, even the Impressionist rooms.

Femmes au Jardin, Claude Monet, 1866

After trudging through some of the Louvre’s rooms of correct-but-boring earlier French painting, it’s easy to see why the Impressionists were first ridiculed, then finally embraced for bringing in more light and color and joie de vivre.

La Famille Bellilli, Edgar Degas, between 1858 and 1869

When the Orsay is uncrowded, it’s possible to stand in front of paintings and ponder things like family dysfunction, as well as masterful technique. In the family above, I’d choose the girl on the left as my friend. The other people look too standoffish, even to each other. And the dad looks pretty much absent.

Time to escape museums and wander the streets of the Left Bank. Shop windows are as artful as anything. Yes, I’ll have that bird.

Florist shops are enchanting, and they spill out onto the street even in November. It’s not that cold, with highs of 45-50 in the daytime. Of course it helps to have a sunny day–which I’ll admit might be rare.

Help! My bike broke down. No worries, there’s a mobile bike repair shop to call: L’Atelier Velo Sur Votre Route.

At almost any time of the day or night, I’m up for crepes. I especially like Creperie des Arts in the Latin Quarter. All right, I’ll admit the resident cat is a big part of the attraction. He knows me now.

So this is November 2018 in Paris, sadly marred by violent Saturday protests.

By the time I left, Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe was looted and smeared with rude graffiti.

But Paris has weathered worse. When the dust settles, I’m sure I’ll be back. I still expect to see a little repair scaffolding at Notre Dame. After all, the building has stood through eight centuries of ups and downs in Paris.

Paris in November 2018: The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

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I just returned from a week and a half in Paris, and I have to say that Charles Dickens had it right in his opening to “A Tale of Two Cities.” He wrote, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness…it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…” Dickens was writing about the time of the French Revolution. The parallels to our own time are hard to ignore.

There’s beauty and history at every turn. But it’s a living city, and even its venerable monuments are subject to the winds of history. I was thrilled to arrive on Le Bus Direct from the airport and find the Arc de Triomphe right across the street. I was even more thrilled to locate the affordable apartment I had rented a block and a half away.

Our first day, a Friday, was foggy. We went to the Concorde and had a look at the art in the Orangerie.

On Saturday, many metro stations in central Paris were closed due to protests. No matter! We walked. We used our Museum Passes to pop into the Louvre and the Orsay, just making short stops to get our bearings.

In the evening, we strolled through the Christmas Market in the Tuileries. By about 8 pm, we started walking home. That didn’t work. Streets around the Champs Elysees were cordoned off, but rows of cheerful, confident police gave people directions while front-loaders moved in behind them to clean up the debris from the day’s protests. We treated ourselves to a taxi back to our apartment. By the next morning, everything was back to normal. Paris was Paris.

The following Saturday was our last full day in Paris. It was December 1. We knew there would be some protests, but we hoped we could pretty much ignore them as we had the week before. Little did we know…

The day began with peaceful marchers on the Champs Elysees. This banner said, more or less, “Macron, stop treating as though we are stupid.” What began a few weeks earlier as a protest against high fuel prices had become a movement against the government. It appears that a large majority is angry about a government that heavily favors the rich over the poor.

“Storming of the Bastille,” Jean-Pierre Houël, Public Domain

Protests in France are a way of life, but this one feels like it could be historic. We all know what happened after about a thousand angry men overran a prison in Paris on July 14, 1789.

Early in the day on December 1, demonstrators broke through police lines and gathered around the flame of the Unknown Soldier under the Arc de Triomphe (I kept a live stream going on TV). Ominously, many of them wore gas masks, and many faces were covered. Soon they were chased out. All day, a game of cat-and-mouse went on. Police would rush to one location, and protestors would be overturning cars, smashing shop windows, and building barricades in another.

All this seemed leaderless. On the streets, people in gilets jaunes (yellow jackets) were constantly on their smartphones and gathering in small groups to decide where to go next. It was hard to tell who was violent and who was peaceful. At one point when we ventured out toward a local cafe, the five women above warned us to change direction. They were walking away from an incident, but they also had gas masks.

Things were peaceful in the small branch of Starbucks around the corner from our apartment. In fact, hardly anybody was there. People in yellow jackets were allowed in, but they took off their jackets and the French flags that many had draped around their shoulders. They might have been asked to take off the jackets and flags–it’s hard to know what’s going on in a foreign language, and my rudimentary French was not serving me very well in the fast-moving events.

We tried walking out of the protest area.

Maybe we could just enjoy local shop windows?

But it soon became impossible to go outside without catching choking whiffs of tear gas and hearing the boom of stun grenades. On TV, we could see protesters daring the police to attack, and being knocked over by water cannons.

Early in the afternoon, we bought some groceries and decided to hole up in our apartment until we left Paris in the morning. We felt safe because police had completely evacuated the Place Charles de Gaulle, the huge traffic circle that surrounds the Arc de Triomphe. Police vans by the dozen were parked on a nearby street, and we were on a smaller street, in an apartment inside a courtyard with a locked door to the quiet little rue de l’Etoile outside.

We settled in and turned on live TV. Suddenly, the entire Place Charles de Gaulle was overrun again. Small bands of police were retreating behind their shields, obviously in danger of being surrounded.

Each officer had his hand on another officer’s shoulder and they slowly retreated in orderly lines. I half expected somebody to shout “Shield Wall!” But the police retreated to their nearby vans. The plaza filled with a swirling mass of humanity. Then, men in yellow jackets suddenly appeared ON TOP OF the Arc de Triomphe.

Later, we saw footage showing them breaking into the monument, looting, and destroying statues.

We surrendered. If the French can’t defend the Arc de Triomphe, anything can happen. We packed our stuff and reserved a room at the airport hotel, not sure we could even get there. A few doors down our little street, we walked into a Best Western Hotel and asked the front desk clerk to call a taxi. She refused! She said no taxi would even drive into the area. She practically threw us out.

We walked around the corner and into a fancier hotel, where people seemed to be coming and going (and paying rates way above our price range). The very kind concierge called us a taxi and made sure it arrived. With great relief, we piled in.

The driver spoke very good English and played soft jazz. After a few minutes, he had driven us out of the destruction. He said he was against the violence, but the protest was necessary because the government was not listening to the people. Yup, I get that now. (News reports say that 70 to 80% of the people support the current protests). The Sheraton at CDG was a haven of tranquility and people spoke excellent English. It was fully booked.

I kept the TV live stream on and looked at it once in awhile all night. It appeared that the violence and destruction were pretty much over by about 3 in the morning. Cleanup was beginning, and President Macron, who had been out of the country meeting other world leaders, was flying home to survey the damage. Cleanup began. I’m afraid the real cleanup will take a long time.

Paris is always the same, and always different. We’ll be back, hopefully in more peaceful times.

Paris in November: I’m Sold!

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One of my favorite paintings on this trip is Kees Van Dongen’s dancing girl at the Musee Marmottan. He painted it in 1905 when he was one of the leaders of the Fauves (aka the Wild Beasts). The title should be “Jumping for Joy” or something like that, don’t you think? But noooo…the title is “Le Boniment,” which means something like “a lie to please” or “a sales pitch.” The subject was a circus performer. Oh, well, it still looks like pure joy to me.

Of course the best reason for trekking out to the Marmottan on the edge of the city is Claude Monet. The Marmottan has the biggest collection of his work, including the little painting that started an art movement: “Impression, sol levant.” (Impression, sun rising,) painted in 1872.

Detail from Gustave Caillebotte’s “Rue de Paris, temps de pluie,” 1877

They also have masterpieces by Gustave Caillebotte, the rich boy who chose to hang out with the artists who were having such a good time. He was a wonderful painter, but after some years he gave it up and became a patron of artists he considered his betters. The painting above was on the cover of the phone book in my hometown years before I’d ever heard about Caillebotte. (Anyone remember phone books?) Actually this was a study for the actual painting, which is at the Art Institute in Chicago. But I’m glad enough to see this one. Claude Monet was given this “sketch” painting as a gift and kept it in his bedroom until he died.

As for Paris in winter, it rains. Quite a bit.

And it gets dark early. And there are no live flowers in the Tuileries or anywhere else, except in gorgeous shop windows.

But there are plenty of seasonal compensations. The Musee d’Orsay is blessedly uncrowded.

And there are flowers at Orsay. Edouard Manet’s “Olympia” receives plenty of bouquets but is more interested in challenging the viewer, as shockingly now as in 1865 when she was the talk of all Paris.

In the same room at the Orsay, Manet’s parents studiously look the other way. He painted them in 1861. I wonder what they thought of Ms. Olympia and their son’s raffish friends.

The Orsay features a wonderful Picasso exhibit that I’ve now seen twice, without waiting in line. Above is a detail from his “La Soupe,” 1902-1903.

Outside, I mostly take buses and the Metro, but it’s pretty easy to hail a cab. Wait, that’s not me! That’s a detail from Picasso’s “Lady with a Fan,” 1905.

Free and cheap concerts abound, at places like the American Church along the Seine.

Maybe I could take a painting class at the Louvre?

I won’t be renting one of the perfectly-silent scooters that people run along sidewalks everywhere. I value life and limb too much.

But if I do somehow fall into the Seine, one of these friendly guys in wetsuits will rescue me. They were practicing by somersaulting into the water and then reeling each other in.

Along the Seine, the Conciergerie, Marie Antoinette’s final sad prison, looks as forbidding as ever.

Inside the complex, which still holds the courts, St-Chapelle sits like a crown jewel with its fantastic medieval stained glass.

At every turn, there’s some iconic sight.

Paris in November? No worries. I’m sold!

I Love Paris in the Winter…When It Sizzles?

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It was a thrill to get off the airport bus right in front of the Arc de Triomphe, even though in the evening a light drizzle turned into a downpour that lasted all night.

By morning, the rain had cleared. But our temporary neighborhood was rapidly turning into a battle scene and we wondered whether to even leave our room. We could see on TV what was happening a block away.

“Les Gilets Jaunes” are the yellow vests all French drivers have to keep in their vehicles and wear in case of breakdown. For a couple of weeks, protesters have worn them while trying to get the government to reverse high taxes on fuel. Now it seems the protests have turned against President Macron and his policies.

Quite a few people believe he cares only about rich people, and a small number of people get richer while the poor get poorer. (Americans, can you imagine that?) Macron’s administration raised fuel taxes, which impact people who have to drive to work. I don’t understand the details, but apparently they also eliminated a “wealth” tax.

Storming of the Bastille, unknown artist, Public Domain

Of course France has a long history of protest. On July 14, 1789 the French Revolution began in earnest with the storming of the Bastille prison.

The current grass-roots movement seems to have no real leaders. Will it grow or die out? Nobody knows yet. The demonstrations this week were smaller than the week before, but there are protests all over the country. About 5000 to 8000 people gathered on the Champs Elysees for a peaceful “manifestation,” but these things do tend to get out of control. We watched it all unfold from the safety of our room. All the TV stations were in French, but there was constant live video.

There seemed to be a lull in early afternoon, so we ventured out. Metro stations in our neighborhood were closed, so we walked–away from the “manifestations.” It looked like the protesters had called a general coffee break. The people above had spread out their clothes to dry on a heat grate on the sidewalk. They had been sprayed with water cannons. There was a lot of tear gas in the air, too, although we never got near enough to actually feel its effects.

Protesters had been busy piling up materials for bonfires–which firefighters put out all day. Could we climb the Arc de Triomphe to get an overview? No way.

Just a block off the Champs Elysees, everything seemed normal except for less traffic. But all day long and into the evening, we could see pillars of smoke. Police helicopters hovered above.

We walked along the Seine, where life was going on as usual.

We made a quick stop at the Palais de Tokyo for the modern art. Then we made our way to the Orsay to see the current Picasso exhibit.

Picasso was astounding as always. Was there anything the man couldn’t do? That’s an early self-portrait.

I love his Child with Pigeon, 1901. We have museum passes, so we pop in and out of the great-but-exhausting museums of Paris.

After catching dinner, we started walking back home for the night, and came upon a Christmas market in the Tuileries.

By 9:30 pm, the demonstrators had all gone home, but the Metro we would have taken was closed and police had the whole area cordoned off for cleanup. The police were friendly and as helpful as they could be in the situation.

We gave up on walking and took a taxi because we had to circle way around the protest area.

I asked Santa for a more peaceful day tomorrow. But after all, protest is part of the French history I came to see.

The next day: it was interesting to read press coverage from outlets such as the Daily Mail

https://dailym.ai/2DJVJMQ

Even after my high school and college French, and obsessively studying on Duolingo daily for six months, my French leaves a lot to be desired. I’m lucky to catch about one out of every four or five words on French TV news. The images pretty much speak for themselves, though.

Fontevraud l’Abbaye

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If I didn’t already believe in ghosts, I’d be positive they exist after visiting Fontevraud Abbey in France. I was looking forward to seeing it again on my last trip to France. I last saw it years ago, and expected it to be more developed for visitors now. It is, but not in a good way, at least not for me.

The Abbey was begun in the 1100s and for centuries was the home of generations of nuns.

Many of them were noblewomen who either chose monastic life or retreated to the convent when they were widowed or retired from public life. Also, quite often women who were in disgrace were packed off to convents so that everybody else could feel better about them. An exhibit in the cloisters earnestly uses this fact to argue that monastic life was similar to prison life. Much is made of uniforms and hierarchies. I don’t buy the argument.

There were actually four different orders of religious people at Fontevraud, one of them made up of male monks under the authority of the nuns. Fontevraud was very unusual in that respect. It was set up as a kind of utopian community run by women. I’m all for that! But there’s very little information posted about the history of the Abbey.

Eleanor of Aquitaine retreated to Fontevraud in her old age and died there. Eventually, her husband, Henry II of England, was buried alongside her in Fontevraud Abbey. Life in the convent was dignified and refined. Eleanor’s effigy shows her peacefully reading a book, probably Scripture (but I like to think it was something racy).

Eleanor and Henry’s son, King Richard the Lionheart, was buried in the same place, along with his sister-in-law Isabelle of Angoulême. Life went on placidly in the convent for centuries.

Then came the French Revolution. The Abbey was deconsecrated and the nuns were unceremoniously turned out.

Sacred images were smashed. Treasures were hauled off. Gold crosses were melted down. Only a few religious images remained, high up on walls.

Then in 1804, after all that was over, Napoleon Bonaparte ordered the creation of a high-security prison which soon held as many as 2000 unfortunate men at a time. (I think the prisoners were all men). It became one of the harshest prisons in France, and remained so for over 150 years. The cavernous spaces were filled with cells and workrooms.

Guards patrolled the cloisters where generations of nuns once walked.

Today, an exhibit explains prison life. I think the photo above shows prison authorities. There were some photos of prisoners, but I could hardly bear to look at them. During World War II, resistance fighters were imprisoned at Fontevraud. Ten of them were shot on the grounds.

Prisoners did forced labor in complete silence, never allowed to speak even to each other. They were subject to terrible abuse. They worked day and night with very little food or rest. Life expectancy was 8 months.

I felt chilled and fearful the entire time I was in the Abbey. I felt certain that the place was haunted by the thousands of prisoners who suffered and died there. The prison finally closed in 1963.

Today, there is very little visible information about the royal tombs. Actually, what is visible is probably just the effigies. The tombs are very likely elsewhere.

The huge nave is cold, empty, and unconsecrated. Only a few fragments of wall paintings remain. There’s nothing much to look at except a kind of desk off to one side, where one person can sit and look at computer images. A small group was huddled over it and I could not even get close. And the building was really cold, even on a sunny day in May. It felt like more than just a physical coldness.

I’d have to be a much bigger fan of Romanesque architecture to venture through the Abbey doors again. But I won’t make it that far anytime soon. Entry to the Abbey is through a modern annex that somehow feels prison-like, with automatic sliding air-lock-type glass doors. I didn’t see any free guide brochures, and for once I didn’t feel like springing for a guidebook. Entry fees are stiff, too, and nobody is especially welcoming. Signs directing visitors are few and far between, and confusing.

I know there are other buildings in the complex that I missed. But most of the buildings seem to be closed.

Parts of the complex still seem to be under renovation or off-limits for other reasons. Back in the entry/exit/bookshop, I paged through a guidebook. I couldn’t find anything that tempted me to go back inside.

Maybe I lack imagination when I look at empty ancient spaces. Maybe I just wasn’t persistent enough. But I couldn’t wait to escape Fontevraud. I blame the ghosts.

I left and rushed to the nearest chateau, Usse, where I got in just before it closed for the day. If there are ghosts at Chateau d’Usse, they are friendly, welcoming ones. I know that a lot of people love Fontevraud. But it left me cold. And I don’t think a warm coat would have helped much.

Vaux-le-Vicomte: Fouquet’s Rise and Fall

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Louis XIV traveled to this newly-built chateau, Vaux-le-Vicomte, on August 17, 1661. The owner, Nicolas Fouquet, was throwing a spectacular blowout party for the Sun King.

There was music, dancing, banks of flowers, and the premier performance of the Moliere play “Les Facheux” on the slightly elevated dias of the salon pictured above. (Translation of the title: The Unfortunate, The Regrettable. Yes, the whole evening certainly was all that).

And that’s Moliere, quietly observing the follies of men from his place on the mantle.

Back in 1641, Nicolas Fouquet was a young man on the make in France. At age 26, he was a member of the Parlement of Paris. This was not a debating or advising body; instead it was a sort of appeals court with great powers. It put him in position to get very rich.

Fouquet’s family emblem was the squirrel. His family motto was “Quo Non Ascendet” or “What heights will he not scale.” Heights, indeed. Fouquet climbed relentlessly from his Parlement position until in 1656 he landed the real plum job: Minister of Finance for the Sun King. A squirrel with better judgment than Fouquet might have settled down in a comfy hole and enjoyed the bounty of nuts he had already gathered. But Fouquet was a man of taste and refinement. He liked nice things and he could afford them, so why not have the best?

Fouquet was a patron of the arts and a great friend of artists. Jean de la Fontaine, the brilliant writer of the “Fables,” was a close friend who stayed regularly with Fouquet. He had very nice rooms to live and work in at Vaux-le-Vicomte.

When he landed the ministerial job, Fouquet bought and demolished three villages to make room for his chateau and grounds. Then he relocated the villagers and put them to work hauling, pounding and digging. It was said that he employed a virtual army of 18,000 people in his project.

For his grand chateau, Fouquet hired Louis le Vau as architect, Andre le Notre as landscape designer, and Charles le Brun as painter/decorator. Vaux-le-Vicomte was the first of their many celebrated projects together.

Everybody knew that King Louis XIV was not a man who liked to be upstaged. Fouquet’s chateau looked nicer than anything the king had for himself at the time.

King Louis XIV, painting by Hyacinthe Rigaud, 1701, Public Domain

During the fateful party on August 17, 1661, Louis was shown into the obligatory King’s Chambers that Fouquet had carefully prepared for him, but the envious king was fuming.

Jean-Baptiste Colbert, painting by Philippe de Champaign, Public Domain

Somebody else saw opportunity in the situation. For some time, Jean-Baptiste Colbert had been insinuating to the king that Fouquet had embezzled funds. The king was only too happy to listen. Some historians suggest that he had already decided to oust Fouquet long before the royal carriage rolled up to the chateau doors on August 17.

Fouquet was arrested three weeks later and put on trial. The painting above, by an unknown artist, shows the grim courtroom scene. The verdict was a foregone conclusion. The court sentenced him to exile, but the king overruled the court. Fouquet was sent to prison for the rest of his life. Naturally, everything he owned became the property of the Crown. And Colbert took his place as Minister of Finance, a post he held for many years afterward.

Louis XIV confiscated all the fine furniture and art. He also famously dug up all the plants in the gardens. Most importantly, he took the architect Le Vau, the landscaper Le Notre, and the decorator Le Brun straight to Versailles to work on his own supersized chateau.

Vaux le Vicomte languished for centuries under many owners. It’s now been much restored and refurnished. Three brothers of the de Vogue family are the present owners.

They’ve made the chateau really user-friendly, with very detailed placards in both French and English. The chateau information is my main source for Fouquet’s story. For example, a display shows some of the silver Fouquet would have owned:

A placard explains that Fouquet was never allowed to produce an inventory of his possessions, which would have proven that his expenditures were well within his legitimate income.

It’s easy to imagine Louis XIV entering Vaux-le-Vicomte and pausing under its airy dome.

Louis must have gazed out over Le Notre’s gardens and wondered why he couldn’t have the same thing–or something even better–for himself.

Voltaire later wrote, “On 17 August, at six in the evening Fouquet was the King of France; at two in the morning he was nobody.”

I wonder why Fouquet’s tragic story has not yet had the full-fledged Hollywood or HBO or BBC treatment. It’s certainly dramatic enough. Maybe there are programs I don’t know about. A visit to Vaux-le-Vicomte tells a remarkable story of hubris, treachery, greed and the absolute power of a king.

Join me next time for more about the famous chateaux of France.

Chateau de Cheverny

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Some families are lucky. The Hurault family of financiers and officials serving a succession of French kings has owned Cheverny for six centuries, with only a couple of short breaks.

The entire castle was built in one go, as the Brits would say, from 1604 to 1634. So it has a rare unity of architecture and decoration. Works for me!

The royal mistress Diane de Poitiers bought it as a place to make do while she had her consolation prize of Chaumont renovated. (Most of us would rent an apartment nearby. But after all, Diane was one of the great royal favorites, and only ended up with Chaumont after Catherine de Medici booted her from Chenonceau when the king died. Diane could afford to live in style no matter what happened).

Beautiful Renaissance details abound.

The architect was Jacques Bougier, who also worked on the chateaux of Blois and Chambord. He used a soft stone from Bourre, which is harder than the very soft tufa used elsewhere in the Loire. It has the advantage of actually lightening with age.

The Hurault family lost the chateau again in the 18th century, but then Anne-Victor Hurault, the Marquis de Vibraye, bought it back once and for all in 1825.

Here’s Anne-Victor as a young man in his robes as a Chevalier of France. Among other things, he was aide-de-camp to Charles X. I’m not sure of the artist.

He had a lot of titles and honors. Very impressive!

Upkeep on a place like this is never cheap. The chateau was one of the first to open to the paying public (like me) in 1922. When I visited, the formal dining room was decorated for Easter.

The dining room and hallway are decorated with 34 wooden panels depicting the story of Don Quixote.

The panels were painted by Jean Monier, who was also responsible for the ceilings and other wall decorations.

Every self-respecting chateau was built with a King’s Room, reserved at all times for the monarch. No monarch actually slept in this room as it stands today.

However, King Henri II reportedly slept in this bed, although not in this room. At the time of his visit, there was an older castle on the property.

Of course there’s a chapel, decorated in Louis XIII style (like most of the chateau).

The Grand Salon is grand indeed. The lovely lady above the fireplace is an early Comtesse who married into the family. She was painted by Mignard, whose day job was to be Queen Anne of Austria’s personal artist.

I believe the lady just above is Jeanne of Aragon, painted in the workshops of Raphael.

There are Aubusson tapestries not only on the walls, but also upholstering the furniture. Unlike many chateaux, Cheverny was never emptied of its treasures. The Hurault family is proud that although objects have been added over the years, almost none have been taken away.

Some of the most interesting rooms are in the family’s “private” quarters. (Since the chateau is open every day of the year, I have to assume the family retreats to the really private quarters during the day at least).

How about a nice cup of tea?

When I visited, each room had a Lego display illustrating one of the tables of Jean de la Fontaine, after the illustrations by Gustave Dore. Here’s “The Lion and the Rat.”

And “The Hare and the Tortoise.”

I think Gustave Dore appears in a Legos portrait. I confess I don’t exactly see the point, but I can understand that an old chateau needs to have new tricks up its sleeve. Presumably the Legos keep kids interested.

The nursery is stuffed with antique family toys.

Two Legos hound dogs stand guard. More on the hounds of Cheverny in a minute.

One room holds the wedding gown of the wife of the current Marquis.

And now for the hounds: the present Marquis and his friends hunt several times a week from around October to March, culling about 25 deer from the acres and acres of woodland.

Now, where I come from, hunting involves men in camouflage gear, camping out and most likely drinking a lot of beer.

At Cheverny, it’s a whole different kind of hunting. It’s way more elegant, don’t you think?

The Marquis maintains between 70 and 100 specially bred hounds. At five in the afternoon on most days, they gather for La Soupe des Chiens: a buffet of raw meat served on the spanking-clean kennel floor.

It’s a sight to behold. “Please do not excite the dogs.” Full disclosure: I don’t eat meat, and the thought of hunting wild animals makes me shake in my boots. I’d never have made it as a royal wife or mistress, expected to participate in the Sport of Kings. But I understand that wildlife must be managed and kept in balance.

The writer/artist Herve took Cheverny as the inspiration for his many TinTin books. There’s a separate exhibit about TinTin.

Cheverny is efficiently run, very user-friendly. Admission includes a very detailed little brochure about the chateau’s history and treasures.

I wouldn’t mind being there right now!