Chateaux II: Return to the Loire!

Back to the Loire Valley, but this time, with EDUCO! The rendez-vous was at 7:45 in the 6th arrondissement, so I got up around 6:00, and trotted off to catch the bus. I slept through most of the bus ride out; at noon, we arrived in the village of Amboise, home of both the royal chateau of the same name, and Clos Luce (Da Vinci's house, if you remember that entry). We had until 1:30 to stroll through the town and eat lunch. I had made a sandwich the night before, which I ate as a checked out the ramparts of Amboise, even managing to take a picture of its funny-shaped exterior, from below. Still during lunch hour, I took a stroll to Clos Luce's Da Vinci Park, taking the opportunity to examine several of the gadgets, and listen to several parts of the Leonardo-guided tour, that I hadn't before. Particularly interesting was an explanation of his study of the "human machinery," and of his recognition of the similarities between a cow's stomach and our own, and a frog's nervous system, and our own; at one time, he had ten cadavers, which he had dissected.

I met back with the rest of the EDUCO students (and had a bit of a discussion with our guide about Gothic Flamboyant architecture), and we all visited Clos Luce as a group. I hadn't noticed it the first time around, but there is a secret underground passageway leading from the chateau of Amboise to Clos Luce (it's closed to visitors), which Francois I used to furtively visit da Vinci. I also hadn't noticed that Marguerite de Navarre had her own bedroom at Clos Luce, for her visits to her brother's hired genius.

Most people don't know about Marguerite de Navarre (aka Marguerite d'Angouleme), and I think that it's only fair that I introduce this exceptional woman. Queen of Navarre, and older sister of Francois I of France, Marguerite was a highly-social, highly-astute woman, best remembered today for her great work of literature, the Heptameron (modeled on Boccaccio's Decameron), a collection of seventy "framed" stories. However, she was a true Renaissance woman, and seemed to be everywhere, meeting everyone there is to meet in the Renaissance (her friendship and fascination with da Vinci is a perfect example of this). Apparently a quick thinker, she wrote while traveling in her carriage. A purveyor of tolerance, she offered shelter to the much-persecuted Protestants. Her statue now stands in the Jardin Luxembourg, and you can see my photo of it on Facebook.

After trotting around the Parc da Vinci, where I played the tour guide for a few of my friends, we hopped back on the bus, and traveled to one of my favorite chateaux -- Chenonceau, the queens' chateau with the two magnificent gardens. Again, I noticed a few things I hadn't before, such as the massive mother-of-pearl cabinet offered as a wedding present to Henri II and Catherine de Medicis by the Republic of Venice, and the Flemish tapestry illustrating this happy event. Our guide seemed to recognize my general interest for all of the history surrounding us, and happily chatted with my friend Ade and me about the furniture, paintings, architecture, and tapestries. As I've mentioned before, there is absolutely nothing like visiting a chateau with a historian, nothing like it at all.

Next stop was wine-tasting at Pere Auguste, a family-owned winery that produces Touraine wine. The business is fairly small, and it was one of the owners who gave us a tour of the presses and fermenting tanks. I nearly had a moment of confusion, due to the identical pronunciation of the words for "rooster" (coq) and "grapeskin" (coque). There were fruitflies in the winery, which was a bit unnerving, but the wine was quite good. There were four qualities -- white, red, rose, and sparkling -- and I'll admit that I preferred the Rose, but wasn't too wild about the red. The wine cost 15 Euros for three bottles, which is a very good deal in France, and the winery made quite a good revenue that day from the American tourists!

Back on the road, we arrived at the countryside hotel where we were to spend the night. We had rented out an entire building, where we were three-to-a-room. There were only five male students who had come on the trip, however, so Nick and I jumped to grab a double together (there are a few more boys who didn't show up, but yes, EDUCO is almost all girls, and every current staff member is female). After about 10-15 minutes just to put our things away, and find out in which room the cute girls were staying, we headed over to the dinner room, where we had a far, far better meal than I think anyone had expected. The sole vegetarian got an omelet and courgettes to go with his fusilli, but it was a good omelet. After dinner, our guide led us in some French drinking songs, "Les Chevaliers de la Table Ronde," and "Buvons un coup, buvons en deux."

Soon after dinner, the party started. I hadn't realized it, but many of my classmates had purchased wine in order to consume it that night, together. I couldn't contribute much, but my friends were more than happy to share. We had a pretty good time, sitting together in the middle of a field, and playing various games designed to divulge our sexual lives. I managed to teach Dead Monkey to the rest, which went over surprisingly well. I had a very good time, and didn't get trashed.

Next morning, up at seven. Not fun, after a night like that! Still, Nick and I stumbled over to the breakfast room, beating the rest of the bleary-eyed crowd. Before long, we hopped back on the bus, headed for Blois.

I'd like to retract every negative statement I made about the royal chateau of Blois in my last entry on the town (published about six weeks ago). Although I maintain that the town feels like a tourist trap, and that the Maison de la Magie just across the way is a cheesy swindle, the only fault I have with Blois is that photography is forbidden, and my only quarrel with our tour of the chateau is that it was too quick. The chateau is absolutely fantastic, architecturally, because there are four distinct historical building periods discernible to the naked eye, even to me. Standing in the central courtyard, one look at the red-brick 15th-century Italian-style Gothic flamboyant wing constructed under Louis XII, turn ninety degrees to see the amazing 16th-century Renaissance wing ordered by Francois I, and turn another ninety degrees to see the unfinished 17th-century Classical wing ordered by Gaston, duc d'Orleans. When Gaston was in the midst of construction, his brother, Louis XIII, had a son; suddenly, Gaston was no longer heir to the throne of France. His allowance being cut off in such an abrupt fashion, he lacked the funds to complete his architectural plans, let alone demolish the older sections of the castle, as he had planned. For this reason, the conglomeration exists as it does today. Blois has been fabulously and meticulously restored with paintings, tapestries, and furniture, almost as well as Langeais. The castle is the site of a famous murder, that of Henri II's brother, who during the wars of religion was supported by the ultra-catholic faction; with the support of the first estate and a large section of the third, he was likely to become king. Henri disposed of him, summoning him to his (Henri's) presence, where he (the duc) would be without his customary bodyguard. Months later, in a fabulous boomerang effect, Henri II was himself assassinated. This event was followed by the War of the Three Henris (I'm not kidding about this), leaving, finally, Henri IV, founder of the Bourbon dynasty, and author of the Edict of Nantes, as king, in the last decade of the 16th century. Naturally, Henri IV was assassinated only a few years afterward... You can also see the secret cabinets, concealed in the wall, where Catherine de Medicis hid important documents of state, etc. (no, not poison).

Next up was another castle I had not visited, the Chateau de Beauregard. To be honest, it's nothing more than a hunting lodge, owned by Henri II's secretary of state. The building itself is not terribly interesting, historically, nor particularly beautiful; the grounds are abundant, but none too interesting. The floor and walls of the upstairs gallery, however, are the real treasure trove of the chateau. The floor is finely decorated with delft porcelain tiles, depicting a 16th-century army on the march, each row of tiles depicting a soldier bearing different arms. The walls, meanwhile, are covered with dozens of portraits, depicting the principal actors in French politics, reign-by-reign, from the time of the Hundred Years' War until the time of Louis XIV, the sun king. Our guide gave us a rapid explanation, explaining who was who. Many of the historical personages were not even French; Francois I was situated beside Suleiman the Magnificent, and Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire.

Following the tour was one of the most sumptuous and gourmet meals I believe I have ever had, and certainly the nicest I have had in the last few year. We sat in the Orangerie, and enjoyed plate after plate of fine French food -- couscous, tomato, quiche, salad, wine, cheese, good bread, decent red wine, strawberries in wine, etc. There was good company too (I sat with some very cool people, including all four of the other male students on the trip), and though several unforeseen events did occur, they served more as conversational topics than as anything capable of ruining a meal. The first was the fat spider I spotted floating in my wine, after I had taken no more than a couple of sips. The second was the fact that, unlike at the hotel where we stayed the night, the Orangerie had not prepared a vegetarian meal in advance for me, so they just threw together an omelet (surprise, surprise), but at least they didn't complain. When David found a lock of hair in his salad, we assumed that it was meant for me, who had had the temerity to mention the spider.

The waitress had kindly brought our whole table a new jug of wine after the arachnid incident, and so I drank a little bit more than I should have; I still felt a buzz when we arrived at Chambord, the great pleasure-house of Francois I. The chateau is so vast that in my two visits, I still haven't seen everything, but I did notice a few points of interested that I had missed on my first round. The first was the office, complete with furniture, where Louis XIV had dictated the repeal of the Edict of Nantes (he signed it at Fountainbleu). I had also missed the beds of Louis and of the king of Poland, and one of the three titanic ceramic stoves installed by the Marechal of Saxe (all three men were proprietors, at one time or another). I also visited the rooms dedicated to the Compte de Chambord, so-called Henri V, reading about the man on whose shoulders so much royalist hope rested, the "miracle child" born after the assassination of his father.

We sadly had very little time to visit the chateaux, but the trip was amazing. I dozed for part of the bus ride back to Paris, and also played Contact with the other students. Now I'm back, class has begun at La Sorbonne, and I'm (finally) making some French friends. Hope all is well with you.

~JD

"Enfin le regime egalitaire -- qui serait l'acte de tolerance --les deux confessions placees sur le meme pied, le culte de l'une et l'autre librement exerce partout cote a cote, la participation a la vie publique assuree a tous -- cette solution n'est pas plus realisable, les esprits et les moeurs s'y opposant; et c'est l'explication majeure des difficultes rencontrees par Henri IV pour retablir la paix a l'interiuer de son royaume"[By the end, the establishment of an egalitarian regime -- in other words, an act of tolerance, the two sects placed on equal footing, both cults freely exercised everywhere, side-by-side, participation in public life guaranteed for all -- this solution was no longer possible, with feelings and mores in such opposition; and this is the major explanation of the difficulties encountered by Henri IV in bringing peace to the interior of his kingdom] (Robert Mandou, Introduction a la France moderne, 173-174).

Chateau de Chenonceau

My blog is now fully illustrated, with captioned photographs on Facebook. I'd like to dedicate this post to my friend and housemate Misaki, without whom this feat would have been impossible!

This afternoon, I visited the Chateau de Chenonceau, as well as its accompanying wine cellars. Chenonceau dates from the early 16th century, and is the oldest chateau I have described, so far (although the Chateau de Tours is nearly 500 years older: stay tuned). It was constructed by nouveau riche bourgeois, Thomas Bohier and his wife Katherine Briçonnet, who demolished the preexisting structure, leaving only a tower, which dates from the middle ages. Why did they leave the tower? In order to lend their family and new home an air of respectability that comes from owning a very old building. For the same reason, the couple constructed a chapel; chapels and antiquity both lend dignity to a chateau. Bohier's only claim to fame is his construction of this chateau, the most popular of all in the Loire Valley, and second in France only to Versailles. He was fully aware of this, and he inscribed his ambitions above his mantelpiece; translated into English, he stated that if the chateau were ever finished, he would be remembered. It was, and he is.

Chenonceau is of immense historical interest because of its architecture. It was the first chateau with large gardens: however, it represents only a first step. The two gardens which flank Chenonceau are an ornament to the castle; they represent a separate, detachable element. Gardens at chateaux will only achieve their apogee with Versailles, where the gardens function an ineluctable component of. Secondly, Chenonceau's construction began just as the first gusts of Italian Renaissance architecture rustled through France, and and the chateau magnificently straddles the Medieval and Renaissance eras of building. Chenonceau's most striking feature, on the exterior, is its bridge-like gallery extending out over the River Cher.

Chenonceau is known as the "chateau des dames," or "ladies' castle," on account of the many famous women who made it their home. For instance, one bedroom is called the "room of the five queens," because over time, five different queens used it as their bedroom. However, by far its two most famous occupants of were Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici.

Diane de Poitiers had the distinction of having been the mistress of two consecutive French kings, Francois I and Henri II (she also had a husband). She was the favorite in particular of Henri, who installed her in Chenonceau, which had become royal property. She oversaw the planting of one garden during her stay, which still bears her name; however, when Henri died in a joust, she lost her protector, and was finally subject to her lover's husband, Catherine de Medici. Catherine admired Chenonceau, and so evicted Diane from the premises, exchanging for it a rather minor castle, and planted her own garden at Chenonceau, also still bearing her name. Luckily, Diane's husband was exorbitantly wealthy, and happily built for her a much larger chateau than the one Diane had received from Catherine de Medici. A happy ending for everyone involved, except maybe for poor old Henri, who only received a lance in the eye for his trouble.

Though Chenonceau's interior is still magnificent, it has suffered from centuries of wear and tear. Most obviously, its floors were once richly painted: but passing feet have so worn away the original design, that only in the edges and corners of rooms is any remnant visible of the bold blues and yellows that once decorated the floors.

The "bridge" of Chenonceau was constructed a half-century after the main "body" of the house. Its interior design is Renaissance-inspired neo-classical, contrasting to the very medieval facade. Along the walls are still-newer busts of famous personages: I think that I recognized Louis XIV, and maybe Descartes, but who were the others? I haven't the foggiest idea.

Chenonceau is a masterpiece of composite architecture., and nowhere is this more evident than in the ceiling of the staircase, otherwise an uninspiring place to look. Overhead the foot of the stairs, the style is Italian: symmetrical, geometric, elegant, and classically-inspired. At the landing, the style abruptly becomes very French: vaulted, thick-ribbed, Gothic, pointed; a form deliberately difficult to construct. (The French preferred difficult architecture, appreciating technique relatively more than the Italians.) As one turns 90 degrees to one's left, and mounts the stairs again, the overhanging ceiling reverts to the Italian style. Strange? Yes. Fascinating? Even more so.

Many of the furnishings of Chenonceau, such as the mantelpieces and the bridge interior, are "grotesque." What is "grotesque" art? Art that has been inspired by the observation of the ruins of antique Roman palaces. The Oxford English Dictionary explains the history of this word far better than I can: "The etymological sense of grottesca would be ‘painting appropriate to grottos’. The special sense is commonly explained by the statement that grotte, ‘grottoes’, was the popular name in Rome for the chambers of ancient buildings which had been revealed by excavations, and which contained those mural paintings that were the typical examples of ‘grotesque’... Although this seems to be only a late conjecture, without any actual evidence, it appears to be intrinsically plausible." Now, you may refer to hideous, decadent-looking pieces of furniture as "grotesque," and know that, by your choice of words, you are comparing them to the contents of Calligula's palace.

The most important of Chenonceau's artifacts are its archives, chronicling its day-by-day management and maintenance. These are the true treasures of Chenonceau, which the Revolution would have destroyed, had they not been cleverly hidden by Mme. Dupin, who successfully disguised the chateau's library as a storehouse for lumber. The Revolution wished to destroy all such documents, because they contained noble genealogies. According to Vovelle's Chute de la monarchie, "A gang of armed villagers would show up at the neighboring castle, compel it to hand over its archives, books, records of land-management, secular titles, and feudal possessions, burning everything in a joyous bonfire" (p. 130, my translation). In other words, historians owe a very deep dept to this courageous Mme. Dupin, without whom we would never have such detailed descriptions of daily life in a Renaissance-era chateau.

Nor does the history end in the 18th or 19th centuries. During World War I, the owner of Chenonceau turned his house into a makeshift hospital, where over 2,000 injured French soldiers received medical attention. In World War II, the chateau was poised on the very border between the forces of the Free French and what was officially Occupied France. A group of German soldiers, throughout the war, carefully watched the castle, ready to blow it to smithereens at a moment's notice.

It was an extremely hot bus-ride to the wine-cellars of Chenonceau, and the subterranean tunnels were extremely welcome. The official name of the wine produced by the cellars is Vouvray, a sparkling semi-dry white. The wine cellars feel much like a roomy mine-shaft, and there's a good historical reason for this: the cellars are really the old quarries from which the stone used to build the Loire Valley chateaux in total was extracted. A network of over 12km of Vouvray cellars tangle their way through the Touraine hillside, containing approximately 4 million bottles. That's a lot of wine, and some of it is still riddled manually (although most bottles are riddled automatically, or semi-automatically). The French word for "to riddle" is "remuer," which literally means "to wiggle," as an animal wiggles its limbs.

This weekend, I will be taking a long bus ride to northern France, for more chateaux. I highly recommend that you look at my Facebook photos of Chenonceau, in order to better understand what I have been describing.


~JD


"Dans cette vacance momentanee de l'autorite dont la bourgeoisie sent tout le danger, il y a place pour des hommes forts, et pendant que d'une main elle redige sa Constitution liberale, cette bourgeoisie se trouve des heros pour defendru un nouvel ordre qu'elle sent fragile: les exemples provinciaux ne manquent pas (le maire Lieutaud a Marseille); on en trouve l'expression, a l'echelon national, dans l'exceptionnelle popularite de La Fayette, en cette anee 1790" (Vovelle, Chute de la monarchie, p. 142).

Translation: "In this momentary absence of authority, by which the bourgeoisie felt endangered, there was room for strong men, and, with one hand drafting a liberal Constitution, the bourgeoisie found for itself heroes to defend the new order that it felt was fragile: there is no lack of provincial examples (Lieutad, mayor of Marseille); but one finds the expression of this sentiment, at the national level, in the exceptional popularity of Lafayette, in the year 1790."