Silence in the Old City

Were I to offer advice - may God forbid! - to susceptible and alert friends, I would say: on a fair summer Sunday afternoon leave the sunlit Place-Neuve with the statue of General Dufour faithful as ever on his horse, and walk up the small street known as de la Tertasse leading to the Old City. After the maison de Saussure, turn right. At that time of day, you will find yourself in that valley of shade, which is the Grand'Rue. There, I beg of you, slow down or even stop and savour the silence. A silence torn abruptly by the cries of swallows swooping down towards the lake invisible from here, of course, but which nevertheless fills the air with an insinuating softness.

The boutiques, antique shops and art galleries are closed. Closed too, alas! are the cafés. Not a soul is in sight, not even in the small criss-crossing streets. But the miracle of this emptiness is a heightened awareness of everything unseen. As you walk towards the rue de l'Hôtel-de-Ville, you may have a strange sensation - because of the fine weather, the surrounding countryside with its wheat fields and vines, its woods and gentle hills, comes closer to this vacuum of the Old City on a Sunday. It makes its presence felt in an inner glow of happiness evoked by memories of those seemingly endless childhood holidays. Should you have the heart for a climb, the countryside can actually be seen from the top of one of the cathedral towers.

A different silence is that of night. Long after party hours, silence falls on the Hotel-de-Ville with its cobbled ramp: silence cradles the cour Saint-Pierre where even the pigeons appear asleep, silence in the Arsenal with its cannons dreaming of God-knows-what battles; through an open window, someone coughs.... Suddenly, the cathedral carillon spills out a melody three centuries old, by Rousseau: "Come dance with us under the elms..." As the last note fades, the silence becomes even denser. But that is not the most important - something greater is perceived in the obscurity of the night. Not the few rare stars, the streets are too narrow for that, but something infinitely more subtle and complex.
It could be said the City is enveloped by an invisible aura, encapsulating all that is its history.

After Geneva's foundation, came the time of the Franchises, the independent City-state, the Reformation, and eventually the tiny République which finally joined the Conféderation helvétique. However, even more present is the essence of the people over the ages who made this city what it is: artisans, small traders, and notables, not to mention the sometimes more, sometimes less illustrious personages whose contribution to the prestige of the City lay in abstract disciplines (no countryside around them): the theologians, the judges, bankers and, in more modern times, the pedagogists. All originated within the walls of the High City. None better than they to make me understand the true and beautiful words of Teilhard de Chardin: "Tout ce qui s'élève, converge..." [Everything that uplifts, converges...]

To add to this double silence - dominical and nocturnal - here comes a third: the pallor of twilight heralding the dawn explosion of colour. The light creeps up what used to be the rue des Chaudronniers (the boilermakers of yester-year) and I'm carried back to adolescent schooldays and Homer's unforgettable description: "rosy-fingered Aurora." She touches the rooftops of old buildings, both ordinary and patrician, with the radiance of youth and life itself. This is the hour of promise and new beginnings, when fountains splash more joyously, when workers' footsteps are more brisk, and young women appear more shapely. A brief moment in time when austerity itself becomes a grace.

 

The paddleboats have already set off for the wider lake beyond which lies most of Switzerland. If by chance, you should pass along the street so happily named Soleil-Levant (the rising sun), you come to the promenade de la Treille, and France awaits you on the horizon. Farther away, up and over the mountains of Savoy, is Italy. No doubt about it - Europe is there! And in this morning bustle, Geneva appears to me like a seed opening up to the world, charged with winning energy, but eminently peaceful and happy. Even I, for whom slogans and official formulas have absolutely no charm, can't help but remember the motto that Geneva has made its own: Post tenebras lux-After the shadows, comes light-to gladden the eye and if possible the soul.

Geneva
Regards sur la Vieille-Ville

Pictures by Christophe Gevrey

Text by Georges Haldas
(translated from the french by Mary Guerry)

Published by Albert Philippon Photographies

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