Over Strand and Field | Page 3

rests, are decorated with
grotesque or vulgar subjects. A dogmatic intention seems to have
presided over their composition. It would be well for travellers to begin
the inspection at the bottom, with the Aristoteles equitatus (a subject
which has already been treated on one of the choir statues in the
Cathedral of Rouen) and reach by degrees a pair embracing in the
manner which both Lucretius and l'Amour Conjugal have
recommended. The greater part of the intermediary subjects have been
removed, to the despair of seekers of comical things, like ourselves;
they have been removed in cold blood, with deliberate intent, for the
sake of decency, and because, as one of the servants of his Majesty
informed us convincingly, "a great many were improper for the lady
visitors to see."
CHÂTEAU DE CHENONCEAUX.
A something of infinite suavity and aristocratic serenity pervades the
Château de Chenonceaux. It is situated outside of the village, which
keeps at a respectful distance. It can be seen through a large avenue of
trees, and is enclosed by woods and an extensive park with beautiful
lawns. Built on the water, it proudly uprears its turrets and its square
chimneys. The Cher flows below, and murmurs at the foot of its arches,
the pointed corners of which form eddies in the tide. It is all very
peaceful and charming, graceful yet robust. Its calm is not wearying
and its melancholy has no tinge of bitterness.
One enters through the end of a long, arched hallway, which used to be
a fencing-room. It is decorated with some armours, which, in spite of
the obvious necessity of their presence, do not shock one's taste or
appear out of place. The whole scheme of interior decoration is
tastefully carried out; the furniture and hangings of the period have
been preserved and cared for intelligently. The great, venerable
mantel-pieces of the sixteenth century do not shelter the hideous and
economical German stoves, which might easily be hidden in some of
them.

In the kitchen, situated in a wing of the castle, which we visited later, a
maid was peeling vegetables and a scullion was washing dishes, while
the cook was standing in front of the stove, superintending a reasonable
number of shining saucepans. It was all very delightful, and bespoke
the idle and intelligent home life of a gentleman. I like the owners of
Chenonceaux.
In fact, have you not often seen charming old paintings that make you
gaze at them indefinitely, because they portray the period in which their
owners lived, the ballets in which the farthingales of all those beautiful
pink ladies whirled around, and the sword-thrusts which those
noblemen gave each other with their rapiers? Here are some
temptations of history. One would like to know whether those people
loved as we do, and what difference existed between their passions and
our own. One would like them to open their lips and tell their history,
tell us everything they used to do, no matter how futile, and what their
cares and pleasures used to be. It is an irritating and seductive curiosity,
a dreamy desire for knowledge, such as one feels regarding the past life
of a mistress.... But they are deaf to the questions our eyes put to them,
they remain dumb and motionless in their wooden frames, and we pass
on. The moths attack their canvases, but the latter are revarnished; and
the pictures will smile on when we are buried and forgotten. And others
will come and gaze upon them, till the day they crumble to dust; then
people will dream in the same old way before our own likenesses, and
ask themselves what used to happen in our day, and whether life was
not more alluring then.
I should not have spoken again of those handsome dames, if the large,
full-length portrait of Madame Deshoulières, in an elaborate white
dêshabille, (it was really a fine picture, and, like the much decried and
seldom read efforts of the poetess, better at the second look than at the
first), had not reminded me, by the expression of the mouth, which is
large, full, and sensual, of the peculiar coarseness of Madame de Staël's
portrait by Gérard. When I saw it two years ago, at Coppet, in bright
sunshine, I could not help being impressed by those red, vinous lips and
the wide, aspiring nostrils. George Sand's face offers a similar
peculiarity. In all those women who were half masculine, spirituality

revealed itself only in the eyes. All the rest remained material.
In point of amusing incidents, there is still at Chenonceaux, in Diane de
Poitiers's room, the wide canopy bedstead of the royal favourite, done
in white and red. If it belonged to me, it would be very hard for me not
to use it once in