Chateau and Country Life in France | Page 3

can't say dull exactly, for both M. and
Mme. A. were clever, and the discussions over books, politics, and life
generally, were interesting, but it was serious, no vitality, nothing gay,
no power of enjoyment. They had had a great grief in their lives in the
loss of an only daughter,[2] which had left permanent traces. They were
very kind and did their best to make me feel at home, and after the first
few evenings I didn't mind. M. A. had always been in the habit of
reading aloud to his wife for an hour every evening after dinner--the
paper, an article in one of the reviews, anything she liked. I liked that,
too, and as I felt more at home used to discuss everything with M. A.
He was quite horrified one evening when I said I didn't like Molière,
didn't believe anybody did (particularly foreigners), unless they had
been brought up to it.
[2] W.'s first wife.
It really rather worried him. He proposed to read aloud part of the
principal plays, which he chose very carefully, and ended by making a
regular cours de Molière. He read charmingly, with much spirit,
bringing out every touch of humour and fancy, and I was obliged to say

I found it most interesting. We read all sorts of things besides
Molière--Lundis de Ste.-Beuve, Chateaubriand, some splendid pages
on the French Revolution, Taine, Guizot, Mme. de Staël, Lamartine,
etc., and sometimes rather light memoirs of the Régence and the light
ladies of the eighteenth century, who apparently mixed up politics,
religion, literature, and lovers in the most simple style. These last
readings he always prepared beforehand, and I was often surprised at
sudden transitions and unfinished conversations which meant that he
had suppressed certain passages which he judged too improper for
general reading.
He read, one evening, a charming feuilleton of George Sand. It began:
"Le Baron avait causé politique toute la soirée," which conversation
apparently so exasperated the baronne and a young cousin that they
wandered out into the village, which they immediately set by the ears.
The cousin was an excellent mimic of all animals' noises. He barked so
loud and so viciously that he started all the dogs in the village, who
went nearly mad with excitement, and frightened the inhabitants out of
their wits. Every window was opened, the curé, the garde champêtre,
the school-master, all peering out anxiously into the night, and asking
what was happening. Was it tramps, or a travelling circus, or a bear
escaped from his showman, or perhaps a wolf? I have wished
sometimes since, when I have heard various barons talking politics, that
I, too, could wander out into the night and seek distraction outside.
It was a serious life in the big château. There was no railway anywhere
near, and very little traffic on the highroad. After nightfall a mantle of
silence seemed to settle on the house and park that absolute silence of
great spaces where you almost hear your own heart beat. W. went to
Paris occasionally, and usually came back by the last train, getting to
the château at midnight. I always waited for him upstairs in my little
salon, and the silence was so oppressive that the most ordinary noise--a
branch blowing across a window-pane, or a piece of charred wood
falling on the hearth--sounded like a cannon shot echoing through the
long corridor. It was a relief when I heard the trot of his big mare at the
top of the hill, quite fifteen minutes before he turned into the park gates.
He has often told me how long and still the evenings and nights were

during the Franco-Prussian War. He remained at the château all through
the war with the old people. After Sedan almost the whole Prussian
army passed the château on their way to Versailles and Paris. The big
white house was seen from a long distance, so, as soon as it was dark,
all the wooden shutters on the side of the highroad were shut, heavy
curtains drawn, and strict orders given to have as little light as possible.
He was sitting in his library one evening about dusk, waiting for the
man to bring his lamp and shut the shutters, having had a trying day
with the peasants, who were all frightened and nervous at the approach
of the Germans. He was quite absorbed in rather melancholy reflections
when he suddenly felt that someone was looking in at the window (the
library was on the ground-floor, with doors and windows opening on
the park). He rose quickly, going to the window, as he thought one of
the village people wanted to speak to him, and was confronted by a
Pickelhaube and a round German face flattened against the
window-pane. He opened