1816: the Grandest Tour

Switzerland: Chapter 9

Germaine de Staël entered to a swarm of voices and the lilting cadence of the chamber violins. George waited with Byron for half a minute, then the poet nudged him in the ribs.

"Go on; best get it over with," he said.

George knew this was a breach of etiquette, preceding a social superior, but since Byron wished it he made no objection. Approaching the doors the butler went in first and called out:

"Mr. George Hamilton, esquire, of England."

George walked into a scene of dazzling splendor. Candles and oil-lamps flooded the salon with light, while in every direction he gazed George saw the most distinguished-looking company. Not at Madame de Monferrat's in Paris, nor the assembly rooms at Bath, nor even at the French Court had the ensemble of guests glowed with such an aura of intellect, wit, and sophistication. He recognized no one of course, but by their dress and bearing it was clear that many of Madame's guests were the leading lights of new ideas in their respective nations.

Germaine beckoned for George to join her, and as he did so he noticed everyone had turned to watch the door with an expectant look. The butler cleared his throat a third time:

"His Lordship, George Gordon Byron, Baron Byron."

Byron emerged, and a muffled gasp rose from the ladies. In the corner of his eye, George saw an older woman suddenly press a fan to her forehead and faint, with a theatrical scream, into a nearby man's arms. People around her exclaimed, some laughing, and the sexagenarian was carried out by two footmen.

Byron strolled up to his hostess with a bantering smirk.

"I wish I could say that's the first fit I've induced," he said wryly.

A precipitate crush of ladies formed around the famous poet. He may have been socially banished in his own country, but here in Geneva the opprobrium of English society held less weight. As they all tried to speak with him at once Germaine laughed merrily and took George by the arm, leading him aside.

"Now tell me, Mr. Hamilton," she said with a bewitching smile, "what brings you to Geneva? And to Europe?"

George told her briefly of his Grand Tour: where they had been so far, and their plans for Italy and lands in between.

"A most beautiful country – and a passionate people," she said. "But what of yourself, your family in England? Who are your parents?"

George laughed at first, surprised he could be of such interest to this renowned woman. Nevertheless she encouraged him in genuine solicitude, and he gradually found it easier to describe his life at home, his family, his time at Cambridge. She nodded all the while, ever ready with a new question, and showing nothing but a sincere and friendly warmth. George, who did most of the talking, began to feel that this woman's genius lay not in dominating the conversation with her ideas, but in coaxing a junior partner, like him, to give voice to his own.

"What have you seen in France that differed from England?" she asked – a query typical of many so far.

George started to answer, but then a bell rang out and everyone turned to see the butler announce dinner was served.

The whole room – three-score at least of princes, dukes, ladies, and liberals of every stripe – now bustled into the dining chamber. The main table didn't have space for each guest, but somehow through the judicious provision of extra chairs and smaller tables everyone managed to squeeze in. The ambience was cheerful chaos: George could hear a dozen languages at least, although English predominated. The most decorated Polish grandee might be deep in conversation with a mere Genevan theology student, and neither party would act like it was the least bit unusual. And here, perhaps, it wasn't.