AN OLD CASTLE.There was once an old castle—I begin story-telling after the good old fashion, it somehow gives one a fair start, and it isexpected—There was once an old castle, the castle of . . . it neither matters what nor where.At a time when France boasted almost impregnable castles, this one had often resisted the fiercest onslaughts, although it had been taken and retaken times without number, when the loves of valiant knights for maidens fair caused many bitter feuds. The castle during troubloustimes had been overthrown little by little, so that almost nothing remained of the original building.It is sufficient to say, it was taken and pillaged during the Revolution of ’93, which demolished many old strongholds; after that of 1815 it was about to be restored, and its fortune was visibly brightening when overtaken by the Revolution of 1830, so ably described by the Hare in the opening pages of this book.The old fortress was then deprived of its rank and ancient aristocratic fame, and in its degradation, sold to a banker, an individual who, although rich, was ignorant of the archæological fitness of things. So it turned out that the purchaser while devoting wealth and ambition to his new property, gave it the final blow.Masons were seen at work everywhere, filling up holes, plastering and whitewashing walls; just as if seeking to impart a delicate grace and refinement to a rugged old rock. A terrace was built (renaissance!), supposed to be in keeping with the old remaining parts of the castle, and the chapel became a billiard room. The old place was thoroughly rebuilt, and the new owner satisfied. There was a little of everything about it. Every style under heaven figured in the edifice, the heterogeneous mixture being hideous enough, to disturb the reposing dust of ancient Byzantine architects. For all that, the restoration was much applauded by the courtiers of this king of bullion.Some parts of the building were happily overlooked, or rather saved.Thus it came about that the poor old castle was renewed, decked with a painted and plastered mask, as inferior to the genuine original as the mask of a harlequin to the face beneath.As I have already said, I was born in Strasbourg Cathedral, that gem of Alsace, beneath the classic sculptured stone in the great porch. When one has had such a cradle, reared as I was to venerate antiquity and all its triumphs of art, it is natural to protest against the impunity of those who destroy the noble works of the ancients.The restored portion was tenanted—the terrace, I mean—by barn and other Owls, comical creatures who gave themselves the airs of the first lords of the soil, dukes and duchesses forsooth.One evening after a long day’s flight I arrived at this castle, wearied and in the worst of tempers; out of tune with the world and myself. I was haunted by ennui, and one of those unskilful sportsmen who respect neither age nor species, and to whom nothing is sacred.By chance I alighted on the balustrade of the terrace, from the midst of which a group of half-dead cypresses was waving as the hour of midnight sounded through the chill air. In romances this hour is never allowed to strike with impunity, but in the true tale I am relating, events must follow their natural course. The hour struck and nothing particular happened. It occurred to me to go to roost so as to be ready for a fresh start in the morning. I accordingly settled myself.
There was once an old castle—I begin story-telling after the good old fashion, it somehow gives one a fair start, and it isexpected—
There was once an old castle, the castle of . . . it neither matters what nor where.
At a time when France boasted almost impregnable castles, this one had often resisted the fiercest onslaughts, although it had been taken and retaken times without number, when the loves of valiant knights for maidens fair caused many bitter feuds. The castle during troubloustimes had been overthrown little by little, so that almost nothing remained of the original building.
It is sufficient to say, it was taken and pillaged during the Revolution of ’93, which demolished many old strongholds; after that of 1815 it was about to be restored, and its fortune was visibly brightening when overtaken by the Revolution of 1830, so ably described by the Hare in the opening pages of this book.
The old fortress was then deprived of its rank and ancient aristocratic fame, and in its degradation, sold to a banker, an individual who, although rich, was ignorant of the archæological fitness of things. So it turned out that the purchaser while devoting wealth and ambition to his new property, gave it the final blow.
Masons were seen at work everywhere, filling up holes, plastering and whitewashing walls; just as if seeking to impart a delicate grace and refinement to a rugged old rock. A terrace was built (renaissance!), supposed to be in keeping with the old remaining parts of the castle, and the chapel became a billiard room. The old place was thoroughly rebuilt, and the new owner satisfied. There was a little of everything about it. Every style under heaven figured in the edifice, the heterogeneous mixture being hideous enough, to disturb the reposing dust of ancient Byzantine architects. For all that, the restoration was much applauded by the courtiers of this king of bullion.
Some parts of the building were happily overlooked, or rather saved.
Thus it came about that the poor old castle was renewed, decked with a painted and plastered mask, as inferior to the genuine original as the mask of a harlequin to the face beneath.
As I have already said, I was born in Strasbourg Cathedral, that gem of Alsace, beneath the classic sculptured stone in the great porch. When one has had such a cradle, reared as I was to venerate antiquity and all its triumphs of art, it is natural to protest against the impunity of those who destroy the noble works of the ancients.
The restored portion was tenanted—the terrace, I mean—by barn and other Owls, comical creatures who gave themselves the airs of the first lords of the soil, dukes and duchesses forsooth.
One evening after a long day’s flight I arrived at this castle, wearied and in the worst of tempers; out of tune with the world and myself. I was haunted by ennui, and one of those unskilful sportsmen who respect neither age nor species, and to whom nothing is sacred.
By chance I alighted on the balustrade of the terrace, from the midst of which a group of half-dead cypresses was waving as the hour of midnight sounded through the chill air. In romances this hour is never allowed to strike with impunity, but in the true tale I am relating, events must follow their natural course. The hour struck and nothing particular happened. It occurred to me to go to roost so as to be ready for a fresh start in the morning. I accordingly settled myself.