(_Continued from page 64_.)
A certain Hungarian traveller, a man of consequence in his country, but
not particularly wise, had fruitlessly tried to be introduced, without
finding any one at Geneva, willing to undertake the task, as they were
all afraid Voltaire would be rude to him. A young man, who heard of
this, engaged to procure the stranger an interview with Voltaire; and on
the day appointed, contrived to have him conveyed out of town to a
good-looking residence, where well-dressed servants received him at the
door, and ushered him up stairs in due form. Here then at last he found
himself, as he thought, _téte-à-tete_ with Voltaire. The _malade de
Ferney_, personated by our young friend, was lying down on a sofa,
wrapped up in a damask robe-de-chambre, a night-cap of black velvet,
with gold lace, on his head, or rather on the top of an immense periwig,
_a la Louis XIV_., in the midst of which his little, sallow and
deeply-wrinkled visage seemed buried; a table was near him, covered with
papers, and the curtains being drawn, made the room rather dark. The
philosopher apologized in a hollow voice, interrupted by occasional fits
of coughing; he was ill _bien malade_, could not get up, begged the
stranger to be seated, asked questions about the countries he had
visited, made him tell his adventures, those of gallantry particularly,
and was himself most facetious, and most profanely witty. The Hungarian
delighted, and far more at ease than he had imagined possible, casting a
glance on the papers, ventured to inquire what new work? "Ah,
nothing!"--_le faible Enfant de ma Vieillesse--a tragedy_. "May I ask
the subject?" "The subject is wholly Genevan," replied Voltaire, "the
name, _Empro-Giro_, and the dramatis personæ _Carin-Caro, Dupins-Simon_,
and _Carcail Briffon, &c_." He then began to repeat, with great
animation, a number of passages, to which his visitor listened in
perfect raptures, but drew, meanwhile, a snuff-box from his pocket, and
began to look attentively on him and on a picture on the lid; thus
confronted with a portrait of Voltaire, and compared face to face, was a
trial for which our mimic was not prepared, and his courage nearly
forsook him, yet he kept up appearances, only coughing more, and ranting
on the high-sounding lines of his _Empro-Giro_. The Hungarian, not
undeceived by this close examination, replaced the snuff-box in his
pocket, declaring it to be the best likeness he had ever seen. He rose
at last, thanked his friend Voltaire, kissed his hand respectfully, and
went away, distributing to the servants he met on the stairs liberal
tokens of his satisfaction. These servants were the intimate friends and
companions of the chief actor, and one of them, his brother, unwilling
to carry the joke to the length of pocketing the money of their dupe,
they contrived to give him a dinner at a tavern, where he was made to
tell the story of his visit to Voltaire, and express his admiration of
the great man. The latter heard of this, was much amused, and desired to
see his double, told him he would make a bargain with him--half his fame
for half the tiresome visitors it procured him.
The poet lived like a prince, but kept his accounts like a citizen;
knowing to a sous where his money went: a good deal of it was bestowed
charitably, for he was munificent, and certainly much loved in his
neighbourhood. One night, when _Tancrede_ was acting, and the court of
the chateau was full of carriages and servants, there arrived, as ill
luck would have it, a cask of the best chambertin that ever came from
Burgundy; his own people could not attend to it, and the cask remained
at his cellar door; the servants contrived to get at it, and while their
masters and mistresses were shedding tears at the tragedy, they sipped
the poet's wine. There was generally a supper after the play, where more
than once two hundred people sat down, and Voltaire had something to say
to every one of his guests. As the gates of the town are shut at night,
many of them usually remained in the _château_, poorly accommodated with
beds. One night as M. de B----, was groping in the dark, for a place
where he might lie down to sleep, he accidently put his finger into the
mouth of M. de Florian, who bit it.
Voltaire kept company only with the aristocracy of Geneva; neither his
liberality nor his wit secured him the good-will of the patriots placed
out of the sphere of his influence; they only saw him a sham
philosopher, without principles and solidity; a courtier, the slave of
rank and fashion; the corrupter of their country, of which he made a
jest. _Quand je secoue ma perruque,_ he used to say, _je poudre toute la
republique!_
Whatever might be Voltaire's antipathy to the visits of strangers at his
_château_, he seems to have met with an equal specimen of that temper
from an Englishman. When in London, he waited upon Congreve, the poet,
and passed him some compliments as to the reputation and merit of his
works. Congreve thanked him; but at the same, time told Voltaire _he did
not choose to be considered as an author, but only as a private
gentleman, and in that light expected to be visited._ Voltaire answered,
_that if he had never been any thing but a private gentleman, in all
probability he had never been troubled with that visit._ He also
observes, in his own account of this affair, he was not a little
disgusted with so unseasonable a piece of vanity.
The memory of Voltaire and Rousseau is still cherished by the French
people with great fondness; their busts or figures in bronze or plaster
are frequently met with, and remind one of _Penates_, or household gods.