A MEETING OF WITS.--CONVERSATION GONE OUT TO SUPPER IN HER DRESS OF
VELVET AND JEWELS.
BOULAINVILLIERS! Comte de St. Saire! What will our great-grandchildren
think of that name? Fame is indeed a riddle! At the time I refer to,
wit, learning, grace--all things that charm and enlighten--were supposed
to centre in one word,-/Boulainvilliers/! The good Count had many
rivals, it is true, but he had that exquisite tact peculiar to his
countrymen, of making the very reputations of those rivals contribute to
his own. And while he assembled them around him, the lustre of their
/bons mots/, though it emanated from themselves, was reflected upon him.
It was a pleasant though not a costly apartment in which we found our
host. The room was sufficiently full of people to allow scope and
variety to one group of talkers, without being full enough to permit
those little knots and /coteries/ which are the destruction of literary
society. An old man of about seventy, of a sharp, shrewd, yet polished
and courtly expression of countenance, of a great gayety of manner,
which was now and then rather displeasingly contrasted by an abrupt
affectation of dignity, that, however, rarely lasted above a minute, and
never withstood the shock of a /bon mot/, was the first person who
accosted us. This old man was the wreck of the once celebrated Anthony
Count Hamilton!
"Well, my Lord," said he to Bolingbroke, "how do you like the weather at
Paris? It is a little better than the merciless air of London; is it
not? 'Slife!--even in June one could not go open breasted in those
regions of cold and catarrh,--a very great misfortune, let me tell you,
my Lord, if one's cambric happened to be of a very delicate and
brilliant texture, and one wished to penetrate the inward folds of a
lady's heart, by developing to the best advantage the exterior folds
that covered his own."
"It is the first time," answered Bolingbroke, "that I ever heard so
accomplished a courtier as Count Hamilton repine, with sincerity, that
he could not bare his bosom to inspection."
"Ah!" cried Boulainvilliers, "but vanity makes a man show much that
discretion would conceal."
"/Au diable/ with your discretion!" said Hamilton, "'tis a vulgar
virtue. Vanity is a truly aristocratic quality, and every way fitted to
a gentleman. Should I ever have been renowned for my exquisite lace and
web-like cambric, if I had not been vain? Never, /mon cher/! I should
have gone into a convent and worn sackcloth, and from /Count Antoine/ I
should have thickened into /Saint Anthony/."
"Nay," cried Lord Bolingbroke, "there is as much scope for vanity in
sackcloth as there is in cambric; for vanity is like the Irish ogling
master in the "Spectator," and if it teaches the play-house to ogle by
candle-light, it also teaches the church to ogle by day! But, pardon
me, Monsieur Chaulieu, how well you look! I see that the myrtle sheds
its verdure, not only over your poetry, but the poet. And it is right
that, to the modern Anacreon, who has bequeathed to Time a treasure it
will never forego, Time itself should be gentle in return."
"Milord," answered Chaulieu, an old man who, though considerably past
seventy, was animated, in appearance and manner, with a vivacity and
life that would have done honour to a youth,--"Milord, it was
beautifully said by the Emperor Julian that Justice retained the Graces
in her vestibule. I see, now, that he should have substituted the word
/Wisdom/ for that of Justice."
"Come," cried Anthony Hamilton, "this will never do: compliments are the
dullest things imaginable. For Heaven's sake, let us leave panegyric to
blockheads, and say something bitter to one another, or we shall die of
/ennui/."
"Right," said Boulainvilliers; "let us pick out some poor devil to begin
with. Absent or present?--Decide which."
"Oh, absent," cried Chaulieu, "'tis a thousand times more piquant to
slander than to rally! Let us commence with his Majesty: Count
Devereux, have you seen Madame Maintenon and her devout infant since
your arrival?"
"No! the priest must be petitioned before the miracle is made public."
"What!" cried Chaulieu, "would you insinuate that his Majesty's piety is
really nothing less than a miracle?"
"Impossible!" said Boulainvilliers, gravely,--"piety is as natural to
kings as flattery to their courtiers: are we not told that they are made
in God's own image?"
"If that were true," said Count Hamilton, somewhat profanely,--"if that
were true, I should no longer deny the impossibility of Atheism!"
"Fie, Count Hamilton," said an old gentleman, in whom I recognized the
great Huet, "fie: wit should beware how it uses wings; its province is
earth, not Heaven."
"Nobody can better tell what wit is /not/ than the learned Abbe Huet!"
answered Hamilton, with a mock air of respect.
"Pshaw!" cried Chaulieu, "I thought when we once gave the rein to satire
it would carry us /pele-mele/ against one another. But, in order to
sweeten that drop of lemon-juice for you, my dear Huet, let me turn to
Milord Bolingbroke, and ask him whether England can produce a scholar
equal to Peter Huet, who in twenty years wrote notes to sixty-two
volumes of Classics,* for the sake of a prince who never read a line in
one of them?"
* The Delphin Classics.
"We have some scholars," answered Bolingbroke; "but we certainly have no
Huet. It is strange enough, but learning seems to me like a circle: it
grows weaker the more it spreads. We now see many people capable of
reading commentaries, but very few indeed capable of writing them."
"True," answered Huet; and in his reply he introduced the celebrated
illustration which is at this day mentioned among his most felicitous
/bons mots/. "Scholarship, formerly the most difficult and unaided
enterprise of Genius, has now been made, by the very toils of the first
mariners, but an easy and commonplace voyage of leisure. But who would
compare the great men, whose very difficulties not only proved their
ardour, but brought them the patience and the courage which alone are
the parents of a genuine triumph, to the indolent loiterers of the
present day, who, having little of difficulty to conquer, have nothing
of glory to attain? For my part, there seems to me the same difference
between a scholar of our days and one of the past as there is between
Christopher Columbus and the master of a packet-boat from Calais to
Dover!"
"But," cried Anthony Hamilton, taking a pinch of snuff with the air of a
man about to utter a witty thing, "but what have we--we spirits of the
world, not imps of the closet," and he glanced at Huet--"to do with
scholarship? All the waters of Castaly, which we want to pour into our
brain, are such as will flow the readiest to our tongue."
"In short, then," said I, "you would assert that all a friend cares for
in one's head is the quantity of talk in it?"
"Precisely, my dear Count," said Hamilton, seriously; "and to that maxim
I will add another applicable to the opposite sex. All that a mistress
cares for in one's heart is the quantity of love in it."
"What! are generosity, courage, honour, to go for nothing with our
mistress, then?" cried Chaulieu.
"No: for she will believe, if you are a passionate lover, that you have
all those virtues; and if not, she will never believe that you have
one."
"Ah! it was a pretty court of love in which the friend and biographer of
Count Grammont learned the art!" said Bolingbroke.
"We believed so at the time, my Lord; but there are as many changes in
the fashion of making love as there are in that of making dresses.
Honour me, Count Devereux, by using my snuff-box and then looking at the
lid."
"It is the picture of Charles the Second which adorns it; is it not?"
"No, Count Devereux, it is the diamonds which adorn it. His Majesty's
face I thought very beautiful while he was living; but now, on my
conscience, I consider it the ugliest phiz I ever beheld. But I
directed your notice to the picture because we were talking of love; and
Old Rowley believed that he could make it better than any one else. All
his courtiers had the same opinion of themselves; and I dare say the
/beaux garcons/ of Queen Anne's reign would say that not one of King
Charley's gang knew what love was. Oh! 'tis a strange circle of
revolutions, that love! Like the earth, it always changes, and yet
always has the same materials."
"/L'amour, l'amour, toujours l'amour/, with Count Anthony Hamilton!"
said Boulainvilliers. "He is always on that subject; and, /sacre bleu/!
when he was younger, I am told he was like Cacus, the son of Vulcan, and
breathed nothing but flames."
"You flatter me," said Hamilton. "Solve me now a knotty riddle, my Lord
Bolingbroke. Why does a young man think it the greatest compliment to
be thought wise, while an old man thinks it the greatest compliment to
be told he has been foolish?"
"Is love foolish then?" said Lord Bolingbroke.
"Can you doubt it?" answered Hamilton; "it makes a man think more of
another than himself! I know not a greater proof of folly!"
"Ah! /mon aimable ami/," cried Chaulieu; "you are the wickedest witty
person I know. I cannot help loving your language, while I hate your
sentiments."
"My language is my own; my sentiments are those of all men," answered
Hamilton: "but are we not, by the by, to have young Arouet here
to-night? What a charming person he is!"
"Yes," said Boulainvilliers. "He said he should be late; and I expect
Fontenelle, too, but /he/ will not come before supper. I found
Fontenelle this morning conversing with my cook on the best manner of
dressing asparagus. I asked him the other day what writer, ancient or
modern, had ever given him the most sensible pleasure? After a little
pause, the excelient old man said, 'Daphnus.' 'Daphnus!' repeated I,
'who the devil is he?' 'Why,' answered Fontenelle, with tears of
gratitude in his benevolent eyes, 'I had some hypochondriacal ideas that
suppers were unwholesome; and Daphnus is an ancient physician, who
asserts the contrary; and declares,--think, my friend, what a charming
theory!--that the moon is a great assistant of the digestion!'"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the Abbe de Chaulieu. "How like Fontenelle! what
an anomalous creature 'tis! He has the most kindness and the least
feeling of any man I ever knew. Let Hamilton find a pithier description
for him if he can!"
Whatever reply the friend of the /preux Grammont/ might have made was
prevented by the entrance of a young man of about twenty-one.
In person he was tall, slight, and very thin. There was a certain
affectation of polite address in his manner and mien which did not quite
become him; and though he was received by the old wits with great
cordiality, and on a footing of perfect equality, yet the inexpressible
air which denotes birth was both pretended to and wanting. This,
perhaps, was however owing to the ordinary inexperience of youth; which,
if not awkwardly bashful, is generally awkward in its assurance.
Whatever its cause, the impression vanished directly he entered into
conversation. I do not think I ever encountered a man so brilliantly,
yet so easily, witty. He had but little of the studied allusion, the
antithetical point, the classic metaphor, which chiefly characterize the
wits of my day. On the contrary, it was an exceeding and naive
simplicity, which gave such unrivalled charm and piquancy to his
conversation. And while I have not scrupled to stamp on my pages some
faint imitation of the peculiar dialogue of other eminent characters, I
must confess myself utterly unable to convey the smallest idea of his
method of making words irresistible. Contenting my efforts, therefore,
with describing his personal appearance,--interesting, because that of
the most striking literary character it has been my lot to meet,--I
shall omit his share in the remainder of the conversation I am
rehearsing, and beg the reader to recall that passage in Tacitus in
which the great historian says that, in the funeral of Junia, "the
images of Brutus and Cassius outshone all the rest, from the very
circumstance of their being the sole ones excluded from the rite."
The countenance, then, of Marie Francois Arouet (since so celebrated
under the name of Voltaire) was plain in feature, but singularly
striking in effect; its vivacity was the very perfection of what Steele
once happily called "physiognomical eloquence." His eyes were blue,
fiery rather than bright, and so restless that they never dwelt in the
same place for a moment:* his mouth was at once the worst and the most
peculiar feature of his face; it betokened humour, it is true; but it
also betrayed malignancy, nor did it ever smile without sarcasm. Though
flattering to those present, his words against the absent, uttered by
that bitter and curling lip, mingled with your pleasure at their wit a
little fear at their causticity. I believe no one, be he as bold, as
callous, or as faultless as human nature can be, could be one hour with
that man and not feel apprehension. Ridicule, so lavish, yet so true to
the mark; so wanton, yet so seemingly just; so bright, that while it
wandered round its target, in apparent though terrible playfulness, it
burned into the spot, and engraved there a brand, and a token indelible
and perpetual,--this no man could witness, when darted towards another,
and feel safe for himself. The very caprice and levity of the jester
seemed more perilous, because less to be calculated upon, than a
systematic principle of bitterness or satire. Bolingbroke compared him,
not unaptly, to a child who has possessed himself of Jupiter's bolts,
and who makes use of those bolts in sport which a god would only have
used in wrath.
* The reader will remember that this is a description of Voltaire as a
very young man. I do not know anywhere a more impressive, almost a more
ghastly, contrast than that which the pictures of Voltaire, grown old,
present to Largilliere's picture of him at the age of twenty-four; and
he was somewhat younger than twenty-four at the time of which the Count
now speaks.--ED.
Arouet's forehead was not remarkable for height, but it was nobly and
grandly formed, and, contradicting that of the mouth, wore a benevolent
expression. Though so young, there was already a wrinkle on the surface
of the front, and a prominence on the eyebrow, which showed that the wit
and the fancy of his conversation were, if not regulated, at least
contrasted, by more thoughtful and lofty characteristics of mind. At
the time I write, this man has obtained a high throne among the powers
of the lettered world. What he may yet be, it is in vain to guess: he
may be all that is great and good, or--the reverse; but I cannot but
believe that his career is only begun. Such men are born monarchs of
the mind; they may be benefactors or tyrants: in either case, they are
greater than the kings of the physical empire, because they defy armies
and laugh at the intrigues of state. From themselves only come the
balance of their power, the laws of their government, and the boundaries
of their realm. We sat down to supper. "Count Hamilton," said
Boulainvilliers, "are we not a merry set for such old fellows? Why,
excepting Arouet, Milord Bolingbroke, and Count Devereux, there is
scarcely one of us under seventy. Where but at Paris would you see
/bons vivans/ of our age? /Vivent la joie, la bagatelle, l'amour/!"
"/Et le vin de Champagne/!" cried Chaulieu, filling his glass; "but what
is there strange in our merriment? Philemon, the comic poet, laughed at
ninety-seven. May we all do the same!"
"You forget," cried Bolingbroke, "that Philemon died of the laughing."
"Yes," said Hamilton; "but if I remember right, it was at seeing an ass
eat figs. Let us vow, therefore, never to keep company with asses!"
"Bravo, Count," said Boulainvilliers, "you have put the true moral on
the story. Let us swear by the ghost of Philemon that we will never
laugh at an ass's jokes,--practical or verbal."
"Then we must always be serious, except when we are with each other,"
cried Chaulieu. "Oh, I would sooner take my chance of dying prematurely
at ninety-seven than consent to such a vow!"
"Fontenelle," cried our host, "you are melancholy. What is the matter?"
"I mourn for the weakness of human nature," answered Fontenelle, with an
air of patriarchal philanthropy. "I told your cook three times about
the asparagus; and now--taste it. I told him not to put too much sugar,
and he has put none. Thus it is with mankind,--ever in extremes, and
consequently ever in error. Thus it was that Luther said, so
felicitously and so truly, that the human mind was like a drunken
peasant on horseback: prop it on one side, and it falls on the other."
"Ha! ha! ha!" cried Chaulieu. "Who would have thought one could have
found so much morality in a plate of asparagus! Taste this /salsifis/."
"Pray, Hamilton," said Huet, "what /jeu de mot/ was that you made
yesterday at Madame d'Epernonville's which gained you such applause?"
"Ah, repeat it, Count," cried Boulainvilliers; "'t was the most
classical thing I have heard for a long time."
"Why," said Hamilton, laying down his knife and fork, and preparing
himself by a large draught of the champagne, "why, Madame d'Epernonville
appeared without her /tour/; you know, Lord Bolingbroke, that /tour/ is
the polite name for false hair. 'Ah, sacre!' cried her brother,
courteously, 'ma soeur, que vous etes laide aujourd'hui: vous n'avez pas
votre tour!' 'Voila pourquoi elle n'est pas si-belle (Cybele),'
answered I."
"Excellent! famous!" cried we all, except Huet, who seemed to regard the
punster with a very disrespectful eye. Hamilton saw it. "You do not
think, Monsieur Huet, that there is wit in these /jeux de mots/: perhaps
you do not admire wit at all?"
"Yes, I admire wit as I do the wind. When it shakes the trees it is
fine; when it cools the wave it is refreshing; when it steals over
flowers it is enchanting: but when, Monsieur Hamilton, it whistles
through the key-hole it is unpleasant."
"The very worst illustration I ever heard," said Hamilton, coolly.
"Keep to your classics, my dear Abbe. When Jupiter edited the work of
Peter Huet, he did with wit as Peter Huet did with Lucan when he edited
the classics: he was afraid it might do mischief, and so left it out
altogether."
"Let us drink!" cried Chaulieu; "let us drink!" and the conversation was
turned again.
"What is that you say of Tacitus, Huet?" said Boulainvilliers.
"That his wisdom arose from his malignancy," answered Huet. "He is a
perfect penetrator* into human vices, but knows nothing of human
virtues. Do you think that a good man would dwell so constantly on what
is evil? Believe me--no. A man cannot write much and well upon virtue
without being virtuous, nor enter minutely and profoundly into the
causes of vice without being vicious himself."
* A remark similar to this the reader will probably remember in the
"Huetiana," and will, I hope, agree with me in thinking it showy and
untrue.--ED.
"It is true," said Hamilton; "and your remark, which affects to be so
deep, is but a natural corollary from the hackneyed maxim that from
experience comes wisdom."
"But, for my part," said Boulainvilliers, "I think Tacitus is not so
invariably the analyzer of vice as you would make him. Look at the
'Agricola' and the 'Germania.'"
"Ah! the 'Germany,' above all things!" cried Hamilton, dropping a
delicious morsel of /sanglier/ in its way from hand to mouth, in his
hurry to speak. "Of course, the historian, Boulainvilliers, advocates
the 'Germany,' from its mention of the origin of the feudal
system,--that incomparable bundle of excellences, which Le Comte de
Boulainvilliers has declared to be /le chef d'oeuvre de l'esprit
humain/; and which the same gentleman regrets, in the most pathetic
terms, no longer exists in order that the seigneur may feed upon /des
gros morceaux de boeuf demi-cru/, may hang up half his peasants /pour
encourager les autres/, and ravish the daughters of the defunct /pour
leur donner quelque consolation./"
"Seriously though," said the old Abbe de Chaulieu, with a twinkling eye,
"the last mentioned evil, my dear Hamilton, was not without a little
alloy of good."
"Yes," said Hamilton, "if it was only the daughters; but perhaps the
seigneur was not too scrupulous with regard to the wives."
"Ah! shocking, shocking!" cried Chaulieu, solemnly. "Adultery is,
indeed, an atrocious crime. I am sure I would most conscientiously cry
out with the honest preacher, 'Adultery, my children, is the blackest of
sins. I do declare that I would rather have /ten/ virgins in love with
me than /one/ married woman!'"
We all laughed at this enthusiastic burst of virtue from the chaste
Chaulieu. And Arouet turned our conversation towards the ecclesiastical
dissensions between Jesuits and Jansenists that then agitated the
kingdom. "Those priests," said Bolingbroke, "remind me of the nurses of
Jupiter: they make a great clamour in order to drown the voice of their
God."
"Bravissimo!" cried Hamilton. "Is it not a pity, Messieurs, that my
Lord Bolingbroke was not a Frenchman? He is almost clever enough to be
one."
"If he would drink a little more, he would be," cried Chaulieu, who was
now setting us all a glorious example.
"What say you, Morton?" exclaimed Bolingbroke; "must we not drink these
gentlemen under the table for the honour of our country?"
"A challenge! a challenge!" cried Chaulieu. "I march first to the
field!"
"Conquest or death!" shouted Bolingbroke. And the rites of Minerva were
forsaken for those of Bacchus.